Post Finem
by Antonia Caenis
Summary: AU. After the end of s10 Harry and Ruth are in permanent deep cover and on the run. Eventually settling into new identities and a new life as far removed from the Grid as possible, can they ever really escape the shadows of their previous existence or will one particular ghost drag them back one last time? Kudos/BBC own theirs, the rest is my own.
1. Chapter 1

**1. End of May, 2011. St Katharine Docks, London, England. **

The sun was just beginning to make its presence felt on the darkened city as he walked the length of the pier. After the last few days of unremitting greyness and damp, the warmth of the pale pinks and golds that were starting to stain the sky to the east were a welcome change. He stopped and leaned against the railings, gazing up-stream at a view that he'd seen a million times before but, shortly, would never be able to enjoy again, or not for a very, very long time which, at his age, added up to almost the same thing. Gauzy clouds floated, pastel, in the sky above, bright against their dark, faintly star-dusted backdrop; a silvery mist, apricot and pink, lightly shrouded the lamps and early-morning traffic on Tower Bridge, looming above him to his right while the shapes of the buildings on the opposite bank of the river were becoming less amorphous, the twinkle of their lights dimming against the approach of daylight. Then there was the river itself, eternal, sliding by on its endless journey to the sea, moss green and brown, swift and silent with its serried ranks of working boats moored on both banks and the dim bulk of HMS Belfast looming out of the darkness on the upstream side of the Bridge. Vehicular traffic on the latter was slowly increasing as he stood there and the first of the early morning joggers were appearing as well. Not that he was really aware of any of it, lost in contemplation of the river as he processed the results of the past few days and weeks. It wasn't that he hadn't been expecting something of the sort to happen but he'd been foolish enough to start to hope, towards the end of the enquiry, that he might be able to get away with at least staying in the country, albeit out of a job. Then the bloody Gavriks had turned up, like the bad pennies they were, and here he was. Although he had to admit it was better than the alternative – it might still be a life sentence but there would be freedom of a sort... It was an odd feeling, and now he understood much better the reactions of other staffers who had been given the same – the only – option.

He knew Dimitri was up on the Bridge above him, armed to the teeth and keeping an eagle eye out for potential trouble from the roads and the river, while Tariq – still recuperating from the poisoning and not officially back at work but insisting on being involved this morning – was hiding in an obbo van parked in the car-park just above the dock, monitoring the feeds from every CCTV camera within a mile of their location as well as the flight paths of everything mechanical within a 25 nautical mile radius, and Calum was pacing the street and footpath outside the van, masquerading as a member of the Metropolitan Police and ready to take whatever action was needed to prevent anyone unauthorised from getting any closer to the pier itself. The man on that pier deeply regretted involving any of them this one last time but recognised the necessity and silently blessed them for being willing to bother. Even at this, the end of his career and his life as he knew it, he still had no real idea that they actually did it for one reason and one reason only: because they all adored him. He had spent most of his life protecting them, their predecessors and their country; affording him a little protection in return at this point in time was the least they could do.

Soft footsteps sounded on the gangway behind him but he didn't turn, engrossed in the view and his thoughts. The person moved quietly to lean on the railing next to him, arm just touching his. The slight hint of that subtle, classic perfume that she favoured caused his heart to contract more quickly, as it always did. Lifting his face from his watery contemplation he turned his head slightly to look at his wife, still silently amazed that she was here. That they were both here. Porcelain skin, soft as silk. Those clear, opalescent blue eyes that could see straight through anything and into the depths of your soul. The luminous smile that had been so infrequent for so long but that had so recently returned… Momentarily facing the possibility of that loss on the river foreshore in Essex three days ago was worse than almost everything else he could contemplate: material things could be replaced, he'd long since ceased to care about status, his job or any of the other ephemera of human society and the children were well and truly grown and living their own lives, with varying degrees of success, and had been doing so without him for years. But having to go on alone, after she had just invited him to do the opposite… Although that threat had passed in an instant the possibility still sent a chill down his spine. Now, here they were, ironically standing on the very same pier where, not so long ago, he had been desperately bartering with John bloody Bateman as the latter had reneged on his part of the Albany deal, staring down the barrel of starting a new life in a way that neither of them had exactly planned. Smiling gently he asked,

"Everything ready, then?"

She smiled back and nodded as a voice crackled in his ear-piece.

"Affirmative. The barge has just come into view downstream, Harry."

Dimitri. On the ball as ever. He murmured the news to his companion and they both leaned forward but still couldn't see their exit vehicle, despite the mist starting to clear as a light breeze sprang up. Straightening up again, Harry returned to his contemplation of the view, although with a focus on the downstream end, while his wife gazed at him for a little longer, drinking in the sight of this man who had had a strangle-hold on her heart for so very long. He looked immensely weary but there was also a calm acceptance of their fate and even, below the well of exhaustion, a spark of excitement in his dark eyes. Still, he wouldn't be the man he was if he didn't enjoy taking on challenges that would cripple others and come out the other end, more often than not, on the up-side. Whereas she had been absolutely furious, the day afterwards, at the fate that had been thrust upon them, and the unfairness of it all.

"_You've spent your life in the service of the State and this is how they thank you?" was what she had said over morning tea in his office when, after they had spent the morning creating their new legends with Erin and Calum, reality had suddenly hit. He had looked across at her, steady eyes disguising his real thoughts ('God, but she was magnificent when she was angry!'), smiled at her briefly and said gently,_

"_It's okay, Ruth. I've been waiting for this axe to fall for a very long time and it's more justified for me than it ever was for you. I'm just sorry you have to go through it once more."_

"_Don't be because I'm buggered if I'm letting anyone tear us apart again, Harry. I can't, and I won't, repeat going through that experience." _Dismissing the memory with a silent sigh she, too, turned back to the view.

Traffic had increased slightly on the water as well as on the Bridge. It was mostly working boats that were passing, heading down-stream, although a private craft motored out of the lock behind them that led to the interior of the Dock and the police cruised by, heading up-river, passing a barge towing garbage that had just hove into view beyond Tower Bridge. Two sets of eyes fixed on that barge, in lieu of their own, remembering another morning, significantly colder and clearer than this, five years before, that had signalled half a decade of loss and suffering, of one form or another, for them both. Well, that was then; today was almost an opportunity to re-set history and they were both intent on making it work this time.

"You should be able to see the boat now, Harry." Dimitri's voice murmured in his ear again and he turned to look down-stream again, catching sight of their transport. Touching his wife's hand to get her attention he said,

"Our lift is here, Ruth."

It was her turn to tear her vision away from one barge and the memories it held to the other and the potential it represented. Turning slightly towards Harry she said, quietly,

"It's not going to be easy."

Their eyes met, and he twined his fingers through hers.

"No. We both know that, you far better than me, but we will manage."

She smiled at him again and kissed him gently on the cheek, carefully avoiding the bruise, a bilious mix of green, yellow and brown, which marred the creamy skin of his jaw, a fading sign of the life they were leaving behind. Out on the river, their own barge was now opposite and slowing, preparing to make the large turn that would bring it in to the pier so they could depart the city for one last time. As it began to come around Tariq's voice said,

"Visitors arriving. They'll be here in a minute."

The couple looked at each other, puzzled. As far as they knew the only person apart from their immediate work circle and Harry's children who was aware of what was happening was Malcolm and they had caught up with him at the wedding; no-one else was meant to even know they were still in the city, let alone be arriving to see them off. They heard the sound of the car at the same time as the pale shadow of headlights swept over their heads. As the engine stopped Ruth turned to look upwards towards the car park while Harry continued to sweep their surrounds, suddenly unsettled and half expecting a CIA goon-squad, until, to his great surprise, Erin murmured in his ear,

"It's just me, Harry. Your visitor wouldn't take no for an answer so I told him he could only get here under my direct escort."

"You had better be quick, then," he muttered in return. "You can see that our transport is here." As indeed it was. The barge was almost through its circle and idling towards the edge of the pier as he spoke. Through the rumble of the engines and noise of the water two sets of footsteps could be heard and then Erin and the visitor appeared at the top of the gangway. To his great surprise, but not so much Ruth's, it was the Home Secretary. The young brunette was, for once, not her usual immaculate self: no makeup, her hair pulled up in an untidy, somewhat frizzy, pony-tail and dressed in jeans and an over-size sweat-shirt and runners, she looked about 20, not the mid-thirties that she was, but despite the early hour (now just before 04:00) she was wide awake and as watchful as her subordinates on the Bridge and in the car park. The same couldn't quite be said for Towers: also dressed casually (and almost unrecognisable because of it) he was awake but distinctly bleary as he followed Erin down the gang-plank.

"Did I not tell you to _not tell_ anyone else?" Erin's erstwhile boss asked, gently but reprovingly. She sighed and smiled.

"I didn't but he—" she gestured to the Home Secretary with her thumb "—said he would sack me if I didn't tell him." She wondered why the couple in front of her exchanged startled glances and then secret smiles as they had a sudden, intense, momentary time-shift to that previous occasion half a decade ago, not knowing that his comment and her response were almost word-for-word what had passed between them on that other dock on that freezing morning. Towers stepped forward.

"Don't blame Ms Watts, Harry. I put her in a position where she couldn't refuse! Not that she told me anything: just rang me half an hour ago and told me to be ready to be picked up in five minutes, with no indication of the destination or anything else! She's getting to be as bad as you are for keeping her cards close to her chest!"

"She will need to be because she has to deal with wily buggers like you, William!"

The two men grinned at each other for a minute. Despite their low-point when Harry had been handed over by the Home Secretary to the CIA for extradition he had actually understood why that had happened and, now, was oddly touched that Towers had made the effort to be here, especially on top of everything else he had done for them over the past few days. There were very few politicians that Harry had ever had any time for and the man standing in front of him was one; he was also about the only one he might consider keeping in touch with. The man himself turned his attention to Ruth and there was distinct sadness in his blue eyes as he spoke again.

"I couldn't let you go without saying good-bye and good luck. I will miss both of you but particularly you, Ruth. I knew I had no hope of keeping you, not against Harry, but it was a nice thought while it lasted."

"I think events conspired against all of us, William. We all had plans but fate seems to have had different ones—"

The barge bumped against the pier, interrupting the conversation. Harry caught the rope thrown to him by the skipper and moved forward to loosely tie it off on a bollard; while he was otherwise engaged, Towers moved to stand next to his former security advisor and slipped a small, flat envelope into her pocket. She gave him a questioning look but he just smiled and said,

"A small farewell bonus for you both. Access will be immediate, if you need it, although I would leave it for a few months if I were you. Just to be safe!" Thinking she was about to object he glanced towards the other man, who was returning to join them, and added quietly and quickly, "You've both earned it and, even if you think you haven't, Ruth, you have to admit that he certainly has. So please accept it. Not that you can give it back, anyway!"

Suspecting what was in the envelope she would normally have demurred, trying to find a way to refuse his assistance, but she recognised the truth in his words and knew, deep down, that they were probably going to need whatever finances the envelope contained so she swallowed her resistance and, instead, smiled back at him and briefly laid her free hand on his arm.

"Thank you, William. There was no need but thank you, anyway."

"What did you just slip into my wife's pocket, William?" Harry asked, still wary, as he rejoined them.

"Nothing dangerous, Harry, just a little goodbye gift and some contact details, should you wish to stay in touch in the long term, when it might be a little safer. You don't have to utilise either but I would appreciate it if you would use both, one day."

Harry, more pragmatic than his wife, understood immediately and was humbled.

"Thank you. We will. Although the initial contact may have to be vetted by my replacement here first!"

They all turned to look at Erin, who had been standing a discrete distance away at the bottom of the gangway but could still hear, courtesy of Harry's tiny comms unit. She grinned and responded,

"Yes, so you had better behave yourself!"

"We should be going, Sir, Madam. It's getting lighter by the minute." The boat's skipper, not very many years senior to Harry but looking like the archetypal old man of the sea with his neatly trimmed, thick grey beard, ruddy, weathered skin, beanie and thick jacket over heavy sweater, had opened up the companionway and stood by it, awaiting his two passengers, his voice rumbling across to the group at a pitch only a tone or two above the note of his idling engine. He remembered this pair. He'd been at sea for 51 years, 40 of those as a ferryman to the intelligence services, and he'd had his fair share of forced runaways over that time but none quite like these two. He remembered how they had delayed the previous departure by being so unwilling to let each other go, how the woman had stood, immovable, in his wheel-house until she could take it no longer and turned, tears streaming down her face, watching the man and the city grow smaller and smaller, and how the man had been frozen to the spot on the dock, his breaking heart written all over his face. Well, this time it looked like they were going together and good luck to them. He was himself retiring at the end of the month so this would probably be his last run for the spooks – it would be nice to finish on a happy note. But he had to hurry them along, otherwise they would completely lose the advantage of night.

Recognising reality, Harry picked up their two bags, slung them on board and turned back to the others.

"The gentleman speaks the truth. Time to depart." He exchanged a firm hand-shake with Towers while Ruth shared a brief, heart-felt embrace with Erin, both suddenly teary, then positions were reversed as Ruth and Towers embraced while Harry and Erin faced each other for the last time.

"Good luck, you two."

"And you. Although you won't need it."

The young woman's eyes suddenly filled with tears and she wrapped her arms around him, resting her head against his chest for a moment. He hugged her in return; she stood back and looked up at him, eyes wide.

"Sorry. Reality just hit and it scares the daylight out of me! Look after yourselves and I'll be in touch if and when it's needed."

He smiled gently as Ruth joined him.

"We will. Just promise us that you will get out before the job destroys you as well. And that applies to the rest of you, too." He knew they probably wouldn't, not until something forced them to – as it had him – but nonetheless Erin nodded in agreement as he looked up towards the Bridge, where a figure, faintly visible now against the lightening sky, raised a hand and three voices spoke simultaneous affirmation in his ear

"Sir." The skipper spoke again, gently trying to move things along while keeping one eye on the increasing daylight. Without a further word the couple stepped through onto the deck and the captain closed up the companionway, went forward to loose off the rope and had returned to the wheelhouse by the time the pair had taken up a position near the stern from where they could watch the city disappear into the distance. Ruth caught her breath in a slight sob as reality sheeted home to her, too; looking up at her husband, she realised that the reason why he had moved them onto the boat so fast at the end was because his own eyes were full of tears. Taking his hand, she turned back to face the waterfront and realised with a shock that they were already moving out into the centre of the river. The slight sob became a full one; Harry took a deep breath to steady his voice and murmured, apparently to the wind,

"Going off comms for the last time. Thank you and good luck."

Ruth stretched up and whispered in his ear,

"Good-bye, everyone. Please take care."

A chorus of goodbyes and good-lucks returned as whispers to his ear before he removed the tiny device and ceremoniously tossed it over the side of the barge. Dimitri waved again from the Bridge, as did Erin and Towers from the pier, while both Calum and Tariq appeared at the railings of the car park above her, sending a dual salute. Ruth dissolved into tears; Harry wrapped his arms around her, carefully avoiding her injuries, from behind and dropped a kiss onto the top of her head. She couldn't see it but she knew he was suffering as well, possibly more than she. They remained as they were, motionless, until the last of the glittering towers of the city had disappeared.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thank you to all my wonderful reviewers, I am touched and humbled by your support! My apologies for the next couple of chapters: yet another re-hash of the end of 10.6 but necessary to support the rest of the story. AC**

**2. Four days before, mid-afternoon, late May, abandoned Ministry of Defence facility, Essex, England.**

_Unclean._ That was about the politest way of describing how he felt and not just because of the physical events of the past 24 hours. It was more psychologically unclean and used. He had never felt used before and, to be honest, had never really been able to grasp that concept but now, by God, he did. The revelation of Sasha's true parentage had not entirely been a surprise (the numbers had only stacked up originally because he had so wanted to believe what she had told him but, deep down, he had always wondered), more of a disappointment. The original doubt had actually been reawakened weeks before, when he first saw Sasha as a man, not the small boy of his memory, and had been struck by his resemblance to Ilya at the same age… The other revelation that he had been played like a fish on a hook for the past 30 years by someone who was a perfect fit for the definition of psychopath was a different matter entirely, as was the fact that he hadn't picked it up, then or now but, he supposed, that was the problem with pure psychopaths: their charisma and intellectual brilliance masked the rest. How bad must Ilya be feeling? Elena's relationship with Harry had been intermittent and of a relatively short duration but, for the man she had been married to for all of that time and more and who had patently adored her from the start it must have been so much more devastating. Harry didn't know for sure exactly what Ilya would say or do in that locked room but he could make a pretty good guess and nothing she could come up with was likely to save her this time. If he even gave her that opportunity.

The chill, salty breeze whipping in off the estuary was starting to wipe the smoke and cobwebs from his mind and he realised how cold, sore and overwhelmingly tired he was, to say nothing of fed up. Now their precious partnership deal was successfully completed he would surprise them all by resigning this afternoon and walking away. Erin could take the reins again with his best wishes, the enquiry could strip him of his title and, probably, his pension, again with his best wishes and Ruth could return to her new job and life at the Home Office. Also with his best wishes. He knew perfectly well that the events of the past few weeks with the Gavriks and the CIA had probably pushed them past the point of no return as far as any hope of a relationship was concerned, destroying the tentative rebirth they had been working on during his enforced leave, so the best thing he could do for both of them was to let her go completely, as he had already begun to do. She could find someone more appropriate, in age and temperament, in her private life and would undoubtedly fly to the heights in her new job; right now, all he could contemplate for himself was an entire remove, from his current life, her life and, if necessary, the country as well and becoming a hermit for a while as he thought things over and licked his wounds.

Stopping at the edge of the water, he stood and stared out over the estuary, feeling the bracing chill of the breeze through his shirt and hearing nothing but the sound of that same breeze through the grass, the gentle waves lapping against the shingles and the cries of sea-birds wheeling overhead. A small, old fashioned timber yacht heading back in after an afternoon sailing, powering along under tightly hauled main and jib and with a decent bone in her teeth, caught Harry's eye and a sudden longing came over him. He hadn't sailed for years and yet had many, many nautical miles in his log book, mostly from his time as a teenager and young man before real life got in the way. He had taken the children sailing when they were small: Graham hated it because he got sea-sick in a flat calm while Catherine adored it but even that had tailed off once they got to be teenagers and the bloody job had taken over his life so it had now been a good 15 years since he had been anywhere near a yacht or even a dinghy. Maybe that's what he would do. Find a small boat and do something he had wanted to do for years: circumnavigate the entirety of this sceptred isle while he sorted himself out.

The mobile rang – Towers. He turned away from the view and answered it abruptly, listening in silence while the Home Secretary filled him in on what had happened and that the threatened disaster had been avoided. Catching sight of movement out of the corner of his eye he turned slightly and ended the call when he saw who it was. Ruth. As he watched her approach she realised he looked utterly exhausted and, for once, every bit his age and more. Before she could say anything he spoke briefly.

"Plane's safe."

She stopped in front of him and searched his face, noticing for the first time the swelling and bluish discolouration on the left side of his jaw. _Where the hell had that come from?_

"You all right?" she asked, equally as brief.

"I don't know." It was only the truth. He looked at her and then away, still trying to process the events of the last few hours. "She talked about the line we don't cross…"

Briefly looking out into the estuary towards the yacht she responded, surprisingly bluntly and very acutely, "I think you can stop hating yourself for the lies you told her." He winced and looked down, scrubbing briefly at his eyes, as she continued to stare out at the boat and started on a tentative explanation of what she had been thinking lately. "I always thought that, with every lie we tell, our true selves got buried that little bit deeper. And I worry that one day, I'll wake up and look for it—" she finally met his eyes again "—look for me – and I won't be there anymore." A quick, self-deprecating smile tugged at her lips, gone as soon as he registered it. He gazed at her, wondering what to say, but before he could decide she went on, with a slight shake of the head and a step towards him "But that hasn't happened, Harry. To either of us."

He glanced away, then back, then at the ground, anywhere but at her directly – right now, he couldn't trust himself to be able to hide the devastation he was feeling from her – and replied, with a sigh,

"Not yet." She realised, in that instant, that she was seeing him at the end of the line, at a place where he could no longer – was no longer willing to – go on. He was battling to absorb what she was saying, she could see that, but she went on, knowing it was probably too late to make any difference as she belatedly recognised that she had, since the arrival of the Gavriks, pushed him away one time too often,

"I left because I thought there'd always be too many secrets between us." The self-deprecating smile reappeared for an instant as he lifted his shattered gaze towards her. She held his look with her own, opalescent eyes liquid but determined to finish, too late, what she had started, "Stupid, really, because you and I, we're made of secrets." He could do nothing but continue to gaze at her, wondering – dreading – what was coming next, even as he felt he was drowning in her eyes while those limpid blue pools minutely examined his face. He thought he would try to remember every moment of this instant, knowing he was about to walk away forever, releasing her to her better, brighter future, while he would just steal away quietly into the night, with no warning to anyone. She was speaking again but what he heard was making absolutely no sense. "So leave the Service." Her hand reached out to touch and then slide lightly down his left arm; reaching his hand she clasped his in hers and his response was instant, his fingers tightening around hers as he gazed at her, unable to believe what was happening. Her next words almost stopped his heart from shock. "With me. While we still know who we are."

The world seemed to retreat for Harry while she was speaking. He didn't quite believe what she was saying, couldn't believe it, suddenly did believe it. The sun was still hidden by heavy clouds but it was as though a burst of bright radiance flooded the landscape in front of him. Her eyes held his, a tentative smile on her lips and he finally remembered to breathe again, cautiously, as he also started to smile, with the slightest of nods, about to agree before she could change her mind. For Ruth, that smile was one of the most beautiful things she had ever seen as she realised that he was going to say yes and that the future they had both dreamed of for so long was about to happen. Then his expression changed as he focussed on something in the distance, over her shoulder. Sasha had appeared from beyond the old radar tower, moving towards them with an ominously determined step. Without taking his eyes off the young man he said,

"Move away," and pulled her off to one side and slightly behind him. "Go back to the bunker," but instead of doing so she moved a couple of steps towards the approaching Russian, seemingly unaware, in her happiness, of what was happening.

"Sasha, what is it?"

"She is dead. He killed her." He came to a stop in front of them, rage and distress written all over him. Staring at Harry he accused him, bluntly but with a catch in his voice, "You gave him the key, didn't you?"

Hoping the younger man was still in enough control of his emotions to understand the truth when he heard it Harry held out a hand and explained, simply,

"I had to, Sasha. He wouldn't have made that call otherwise."

"Harry—" Ruth interrupted, seeing where he was going with this, trying to protect her yet again. He risked a quick glance at her and repeated,

"Go back to the bunker," his tone of voice making it clear it was an order.

"You knew he'd do it." Sasha stared at him, daring him to deny it, but he neither could nor would. Shaking his head in apology he said gently,

"I'm sorry, Sasha, I'm sorry for every—"

"Shut up." The Russian took a step forward, face contorted in rage, and for the first time Harry realised he was clutching a large shard of broken glass in his right hand, blood dripping down its sides. To Harry's horror, Ruth suddenly started walking towards the younger Gavrik, desperate to deflect him from his obvious intention of gaining revenge on the man he wrongly blamed for Elena's death and still seemingly oblivious to the danger he posed to her as well. Moving slowly, she spoke gently and clearly but with quiet desperation,

"Sasha, it was me. Your father asked me for the key. I gave it to him. Harry had no part in it."

Sasha suddenly stopped, confusion and disbelief now obvious on his face.

"What?"

_Don't give him a reason, Ruth… _"She's lying, Sasha, to protect me."

Reactions slowed by almost 36 hours without sleep combined with repressed grief from the death of one of his oldest friends yesterday and the physical and psychological beatings he had taken over the earlier part of this day meant he was a fraction too slow to prevent what followed. Sasha, wild-eyed and on the edge of a break-down, whipped around towards Ruth and then back, hand raised in either attack or self-defence, it was impossible to tell, and started to move towards the older man again. Finally seeing the weapon and sensing his intention, she had time for a warning call of,

"Harry, he's going-" as he called to her with his own warning, before freezing on the spot and swaying back, trying to get out of the way of the Russian's sudden lunge but felt a searing pain and the heat of blood wetting her dress and hand as she clutched at the injury in disbelief. The young man, stunned at what had happened, stared from her to the bloodied weapon in his hand, to Harry and back to Ruth and took a stumbling step backwards when a gunshot rang out and he fell to the ground as the bullet collapsed his left leg.

The noise of the gun snapped the older man out of his momentary immobility and he took a step towards the woman, unsure of what had just happened. Starting to feel dizzy and clammy she turned slowly towards him, holding both hands out in front of her as she studied them for the first time, puzzled and confused by the amount of blood that was on them. She lifted her eyes, beseeching, to Harry and turned white. He reached her just in time to catch her as she fell, laying her flat on the grass while trying to suppress the rising panic that was threatening to swamp him. He had to stay calm to help her but his mind kept screaming '_no, no, __**no**__, this was not fair. Right when they were __**so**__close to a new beginning…_ '

Her breaths were coming, short and sharp against the shock and pain, and she was aware of a creeping feeling of cold. Staring up at him out of dilated pupils she whispered,

"Funny, I can't breath."

"No, you're alright," he responded quietly while still screaming internally. Checking her pulse he found it slightly erratic, rapid and weak, so, after repeating his words and gently stroking her hair to reassure her, he started searching for the source of the blood, almost impossible to see on the dark clothing she wore and in the rapidly failing light. Erin, Dimitri and Calum had joined them by this time but stood back, out of the way, while he checked her torso for signs of the wound that he feared she had taken, but without any success. He heard Dimitri say,

"I'll get a medi-kit," and was vaguely aware of the younger man disappearing back towards the vehicles but he was still searching for the source of the blood, aware that every passing moment was vital. Ruth's eyes were fluttering as she battled to keep them from closing, conscious of the world fading in and out and that she was getting steadily colder but the pain from the wound and her own stubbornness wouldn't allow her to give in to the extreme temptation to descend into the hovering darkness. Erin's voice came, as though from a great distance,

"Cal, get me a medivac," and then the techie's voice, words indistinguishable, as he called for an ambulance. Harry's hands, meanwhile, were still methodically searching for what he feared was going to be a fatal wound but so far all he had found was little more than a long, shallow nick across her lower rib-cage which was messy but not responsible for the amount of blood that was soaking her clothes and staining the grass beneath her. Forcing her eyes open again she turned her head and said, through her gasping breaths and the severe pain,

"Not there, Harry." She moved his hand to her left arm. "He got my arm."

Rolling her gently a little onto her right side, he could finally see the damage and felt immediate, massive relief. The wound was ugly: a deep slice, almost to the bone, had been opened up diagonally from below her left bicep to her elbow and was bleeding copiously. But, crucially, it was dark, not bright, blood that was steadily spilling out, meaning Sasha had missed the arteries but hit a vein and she would be fine if they could stop it. Clamping her right hand back over the wound with his own and applying as much pressure as he could he looked up and barked,

"Where's that medi-kit? And the ambulance, they will both need medical attention as soon as we can get it here," before returning his attention to Ruth. Erin knelt by them and said, slowly and clearly,

"Ruth, you've been stabbed. You're bleeding badly - that's serious but it's not going to kill you, understand?" The older woman winced as pain washed over her again, barely aware of Erin's voice continuing in the background, "Now we need to keep you responsive—" she glanced over at Harry, recognising that he was equally as aware of the potential dangers of Ruth's condition "—so come on, let's keep talking."

"My face is cold," was all the other woman could manage, but her eyes were fixed on Harry's as he compressed the wound with all the strength he could muster. When he didn't immediately react to her words his Section Chief said, leaning over and reaching out her hand,

"Let me."

His response was rapid.

"I've got it." Letting go of her arm for a moment he went to rest his palm against her cheek before he suddenly realised just how much blood was on his own hand so he returned to holding her wound with that hand before laying his left hand against her face. She really was cold, cold and clammy, clearly in deep shock. "Is that better?" he murmured, silently urging her to continue to fight. She smiled weakly at him.

"Yes. Thank you."

Calum was still on the phone and they heard him call to Erin,

"Twelve minutes for the ambulance."

"Erin, see if you can lift her feet up onto something, even if it's just your lap. She's in shock." She did as she was bid, sitting down with her knees up and lifting the other woman's feet to rest on them. Looking up briefly he suddenly roared in the direction of the car park, "Dimitri! Where the hell are you?"

Ruth continued to gazed up at him, starting to feel slightly less like something the cat had dragged in and never more happy to have him around, despite the stentorian bellowing, then grimaced and muttered a quiet but heartfelt,

"_Fuck_, it hurts…" Somehow, her swearing was enough to make him realise she would be okay and he laughed, weakly, his heart-rate finally starting to slow along with the flow of blood seeping from her arm. Only she could see the tears in his eyes. Still panting slightly, trying to control her breathing, she added, "Well I'm glad you find the situation funny, Harry. Personally, I can think of other ways I would like to end up rolling in the grass with you."

The latter was said softly enough that only he caught the words but they made him laugh harder and he sat back on his heels slightly, trying to catch his own breath and brushing the tears away with his free hand. Erin, watching silently, suddenly realised the truth of what had been in front of her for months and wondered how she had missed it. Glancing at Calum she saw that he already knew and was looking oddly relieved. Dimitri arrived back as Harry was saying to Ruth,

"Don't you _ever_ do that to me again," then, to everyone's astonishment, leaned over and kissed her, long and gently. When they separated Ruth, feeling rather less pain than before, smiled and replied,

"I might have to, if that's the response I get!"

They smiled at each other, oblivious to their audience, and then she moved and let out a repressed gasp as the pain returned.

"Is that first aid kit here yet?" Harry looked up again and Dimitri hastened to drop the bag in front of him. "Dimitri, give me a hand here – get the space blanket out, she's gone into shock and we need to keep her warm. Calum, go and check Sasha." The young techie disappeared while the other two men, their military training and experience kicking in, tucked the silvery metallic sheet around Ruth and set to work dressing her wound. She swore again, briefly but efficiently, as Harry released his hold on her arm long enough to pack some dressings against the wound before he gripped the injury again in an iron fist as Dimitri started unwrapping more dressings and bandages. The bleeding was slowing, mercifully, but she was starting to feel sick again and was glad of the warmth of the blanket. As they continued working Harry glanced up at Erin and asked quietly,

"What happened in there?"

She exchanged glances with Dimitri, swallowed and replied evenly,

"Ilya locked the door. She tried to talk him around and failed. She's dead, Harry. Ilya strangled her."

He felt nothing at the news, merely nodded in acknowledgement, being too weary of it all to care. Feeling Ruth's gaze on him he met her eyes, still swimming in pain, and gave an imperceptible shake of his head. They would talk about it later. Calum returned, unaware of what had just been said, and announced,

"He'll live. The little bastard is suffering but he'll survive."

Pain of a different sort speared through Harry and he glanced over towards the young Russian, now curled up on the ground and moaning incoherently. Returning his attention to Erin, his eyes were hard as he asked,

"And Sasha?"

She held his gaze.

"He was still there. He heard and saw it all. He tried to get in but couldn't through the door and the windows were toughened glass. He broke through eventually but it was too late. We didn't even realise he had gone after you until it was almost too late."

He closed his eyes for a moment. This day just kept getting worse, one way or the other, with the degrees of suffering ever escalating. It had been a nightmare for him but that was left far in the shade by its effect on Ilya and now Sasha had witnessed the unthinkable…

"Harry?" Ruth's voice brought him back to the immediate present and he re-focussed on her, noting her anxiety. She was looking better, with more colour in her face, and he reached out to touch her cheek but pulled back at the last moment, remembering again that his hand was covered in blood.

"It's alright, love. Can you sit up yet? We need to get this arm elevated to help stop the bleeding."

She nodded, aware of what he was thinking and feeling his suffering, and struggled to sit up. Leaning forward, he put his left arm around her shoulders and helped her. While he was rifling through the remains of the kit for a triangular bandage he glanced over at Dimitri and said gently,

"Go back inside and check on Ilya. Make sure he doesn't do anything stupid." The younger man nodded, understanding, and returned in the direction of the bunker, still carrying Sasha's pistol. "Calum, how long before the ambulance is here?"

"Ten minutes. Or less now."

Busy turning the bandage into a sling, Harry didn't look up but asked,

"Can you go and get the kit from the other car please? We will need to attend to Sasha next."

Calum looked at Erin and raised an eyebrow but she just jerked her head towards the vehicles and he went, without a further word. Wrapping the blanket around Ruth's shoulders he smiled at her.

"How are you feeling?"

"Alright. Thirsty and in need of some pain-killers but alright."

"We'll see if we can find you some water. In the meantime I need to go and see to Sasha."

He looked so exhausted that all she wanted to do was take him in her arms and soothe away the hurt and the tiredness but there was no chance of that so she took his bloodied right hand in her bloodied right hand and lifted it to her lips.

"Go and do what you need to do. I'll be fine."

He nodded and squeezed her fingers before struggling painfully to his feet (his knees were killing him) and stretching his back.

"Stay with her, Erin."

He didn't wait for a response but started walking the few yards to where the younger Gavrik was curled up, clutching the wound in his thigh. Sasha, lost in the excruciating pain from both his thigh and the mess of his right palm, didn't realise Harry was there until the latter spoke his name. Eyes snapping open, in his distressed mental state all he felt was fear at the figure looming large over him and he tried to push himself up and backwards, away from the perceived threat, completely unsure of what this man who, through his mother's lies, had believed was his father for the past thirty years, would now do. Seeing that flash of abject terror on Sasha's face broke Harry's heart all over again and, for a moment, he could have killed Elena himself for what she had done to her son.

"Sasha, don't. I'm here to help you, nothing else."

The younger man, still not hearing, tried to get up but his leg folded under him again and he collapsed back to the ground with a cry of agony. Swiftly kneeling, despite the increasing pain coming from his own joints, Harry gripped him by the shoulders and gave him a sharp shake but repeated, as gently as he could and in such a way that the other could understand,

"_Aleksandr Illyich, you are hurt. Let me help you."_

At the words Sasha's eyes widened in surprise and shock and he stiffened for a moment before the dam was finally breached and, with a wail of anguish the likes of which none of them had ever heard before or ever wanted to hear again, he burst into tears. Harry scooped him into his arms and rocked him slowly, letting him cry his eyes out while he processed his own despair. He had wanted this child since the day he had found out about him and had loved him unconditionally, as he had all his children, from the moment he first held him, in this case as a 10 day old baby, the long dreamed of replacement for the tiny boy he had buried a few years before and a complement to the beautiful little girl in London of whom he saw far too little. He hadn't wanted to let Sasha go on that first day and he didn't want to again on this last day but once more he wasn't going to have a choice. Not that the boy was his anyway but it was going to take a long time to come to terms with that reality. A shadow fell over them. Calum, returned with the second first aid kit, stood looking down at them, puzzled, and said,

"You're being a bit generous there, aren't you, Harry? That little sod just tried to kill you and Ruth."

He realised his error when Harry looked up, eyes like flint, and replied in a perfectly even voice that was as hard as diamond,

"He's younger than you, Calum. His entire world has just been destroyed in front of him and he and it will never be the same again. How would you suggest I treat him?"

Calum quailed a little and had the grace to look abashed.

"Sorry. Point taken." He kneeled down next to the other pair and started to open up the kit as Harry said clearly,

"Sasha, we have to dress your injuries. There's an ambulance on the way but we have to stop the bleeding—"

"No. No ambulance," was the terrified response, spoken into his chest as the young man's arms tightened around him. Ever patient, Harry said more firmly,

"You have been shot. We can stop the bleeding – it's not bad – but you need proper medical attention. The longer we leave it the worse you will get and you could end up losing your leg. Let us do what we can."

The Russian finally lifted his face, looking up with huge, tear-stained blue eyes and, for an instant, Harry realised he bore a passing resemblance to Ruth. Something about the shape of the face and the colouring – pale skin, dark hair, eyes the colour of the sky. Maybe if he had had a son with her, this is what he would have looked like… _Christ, the past 36 hours really were catching up with him_. Shaking his head to rid himself of the hallucination he added,

"Let me go, Sasha. Let us help you."

Tears welled up again in those eyes but the young man finally relaxed his hold and allowed them to get to work. Harry dealt with the hand, swiftly and efficiently (he suspected there would be a degree of permanent injury there) while Calum started on the bullet wound. Fortunately the bleeding had been slow but with an entry and exit wound to deal with they were only just tying off the bandages holding the dressings in place when they heard vehicles approaching. Expecting the ambulance neither Harry nor Calum looked up from their task but both Erin and Ruth did, to see three large, black four-wheel drives pull up, each spilling out three black-clad, fully armed FSB agents.


	3. Chapter 3

**3. Mid-late afternoon, abandoned MoD facility, Essex and on the road to London. England.**

"Oh _shit,_" Erin breathed as the Russians saw them and headed towards them at speed. "Harry!" All three men looked towards her, alerted by her tone of voice, and she gestured towards the approaching group. Harry's face didn't change as he took in the circumstances with a glance; Calum went pale and looked helplessly from Harry to Erin, who was now helping Ruth to her feet, and Sasha crumpled against Harry's side, trying to shut out the world again. The FSB agents arrived, weapons drawn, at the same time as Erin and Ruth, and one of the men demanded,

"What have you done to him? And where are his parents?"

Harry, a supporting arm around his one-time son's shoulders, smiled and replied urbanely,

"Good afternoon, gentlemen. I would remind you that we are in the public eye here so if you want to avert an international incident I would lower your weapons."

The speaker swung his weapon to point directly at him and shouted,

"Where are the Gavriks?"

The older man's expression didn't change but his tone did.

"You are on British soil acting illegally and your status as FSB agents will not protect you. Lower your weapons. Now!" Most of them recognised an order when they heard it and did as they were told; eventually the leader did as well, withering under the Harry's unblinking gaze. "Thank you. Sasha has been shot in the leg to stop him doing something very stupid. His parents are inside with my other officer." The Russian turned to order his crew to search the building but didn't get a chance to speak as Harry continued, "Stop. Ms Watts and Mr Reed will escort your crew inside and will not stop you from removing the Gavriks." Both women looked at him sharply but he ignored them and carried on. "You should know that Elena Platonovna is dead, by the hand of Ilya Andreivitch. Have your men remove them, as quickly and quietly as possible. You have already drawn attention to yourselves by arriving the way you have so you need to get out of here, with the Gavrik family, before the authorities arrive." He looked at Erin briefly but with an expression that would brook no argument. "Escort these gentlemen inside." Turning back to the unknown Russian he asked, "I presume you _are _the leader of this crew?"

"Yes."

"Stay here. We need to discuss a few things. Erin, Calum…" Recognising a dismissal when they heard it, the pair gestured to the FSB agents to follow them and the group headed back towards the bunker. Harry made himself more comfortable on the ground next to Sasha, who continued to lean against him, totally drained, while Ruth settled on his other side, still slightly woozy. "_You are aware of the partnership deal that has just been signed between our countries?_" The other man, startled at the fluency of the language, nodded. "_It cannot be jeopardised by what has happened here. Although these events have nothing to do with the partnership, if word gets out it may put the deal at risk and that cannot be allowed. The cost has already been too high for it to fail now._" Ruth, listening to Harry's words, was processing them but something wasn't quite right. There was some sort of phase shift happening between what he was saying and what she was hearing and her exhausted brain couldn't get a grasp on it… "_As such we will not stand in your way in removing the Gavriks but you must get them out of the country immediately. Do it quietly – __**no fuss**__. You will also need to organise medical assistance for Aleksandr Ilyich to have his wounds dealt with before infection sets in. I will not be able to help you if anything goes wrong, so make sure it doesn't. Do you understand what I am saying?"_

"_Yes, Sir Harry." _The Russian commander looked over towards the bunker where there was movement as Dimitri reappeared in front of the FSB team. One of the latter was cradling Elena's body while two others were escorting Ilya, who looked totally crushed. As the rest of the team filed out, followed by Erin and Calum, the Russian turned back to the group on the ground and added, "_We must go. I will do as you say. Thank you. Sasha?"_ He held out a hand to help but then whipped around as the sound of an approaching vehicle came in on the wind. Taking a few steps to the crest of the low rise he saw the ambulance coming into view at about the same time as his crew heard it. Behind him, Harry had creaked to his feet and helped Ruth to hers and the pair of them were now assisting Sasha.

"_Does she understand?_" the young man asked.

"_Yes,_" Harry replied and Ruth suddenly did understand as the phase shift oscillated back into place. Sasha looked at her directly, ashamed, and said,

"_I am sorry. I did not mean…"_ His voice tailed off under her icy blue basilisk stare and the trio turned to look at the group in the carpark. Ilya seemed to sense their presence and gazed up at them, broken, before turning his attention to his son as uncertainly swept across his face. Sasha dashed tears from his eyes again and said, "_I wish you __**were**__ my father, Harry. Not him."_

Harry shook his head.

"_No, Sasha, you don't. Ilya has been a far better father to you than I ever was to my children. You must go with him now, you will need each other. Don't blame him for what has happened; instead, work with him to find those who were really running your mother – and all of us, through her – and deal with them. For Anatoly's sake, if no-one else."_ Two sets of blue eyes snapped back to him, one set startled and the other afire from the suggestion but no more was said as the commander returned and took over supporting Sasha.

"_We must go, now. Good-bye, Sir Harry, Madam._"

The ambulance was close now and the Commander was hurrying Sasha to the nearest vehicle, intent on getting away. The trio of four-wheel drives and Ilya's sedan crunched out of the carpark, decorously, as the ambulance entered. Harry sighed and said, reverting,

"And I sincerely hope that is the last we see of them." Wrapping an arm around her waist, hand resting on her hip to avoid opening up the still-oozing cut on her rib-cage, he added, "Come on, let's get you seen to. That arm will need stitching."

Still mildly stunned by what had just passed, Ruth gladly leaned into him, only slightly regretting the circumstances under which they were first holding each other like this, and they went to meet Erin, Dimitri and Calum at the ambulance. The paramedics at first thought Harry, covered in blood as he was, was the one in need of medical attention but that misconception was soon put to rest and they took Ruth aside to deal with the injury. Little was said amongst the waiting group: Erin, Dimitri and Calum were processing the events of the day and really didn't know what to say while Harry was so exhausted he could only focus on one thing – he was about to walk away from all of this and start a new life with the woman he had loved for so long. As though reading his mind she looked over and winked, which he took as an invitation to join her so he did, the others trailing along behind. The paramedics were packing up; they had done what they could as a temporary fix but she would still need to be seen by a doctor to do the stitching. They were clearly curious about what had gone on but were stone-walled on every front so gave up and took their ambulance back to town while the group headed back towards the bunker.

The younger trio led the way, talking quietly among themselves, while the older couple followed silently behind. Ruth, no longer feeling much pain courtesy of the paramedics' stash of drugs, kept stealing glances at the man upon whose arm she was leaning, contemplating the side to him that had just been revealed. After having been put through the wringer for thirty years courtesy of Elena Gavrik and now knowing the woman was also behind the deaths of Jim Coaver and Max Witt in addition to Tariq's attempted murder, he somehow still could feel and show complete empathy and compassion for her other victims, Sasha and Ilya, despite the former's lunatic attempt on their lives, and that was extraordinary. Thinking about that, and everything else she had witnessed over the past decade, it really did hit home how much she had always misunderstood and mis-judged him. He was so much more than the job and even there he was so much more than most people expected. And he loved her, and had been resolute and unchanging in that love, no matter what she had thrown at him, even more extraordinarily, which made her feel rather small and slightly ashamed, as she had those few months ago when the truth about Albany had been revealed. Why on earth had she denied them each other for so long?

They had reached the bunker doorway by this time and Erin turned to the couple and said,

"There's a sink inside in the room on the right. We will go and sort out the mess if you want to clean up."

She thought her boss was starting to look like a death's head, with sunken eyes and cheeks and pallid skin starting to show the mottled blueness of a nasty bruise under the dark stubble of his jawline but he still managed a gentle smile that lit up his eyes as he thanked her and led Ruth through. Once inside at the old double sink in what was a former kitchenette, he glanced sideways at her and asked,

"Well, what is it? You've been casting questioning glances at me ever since we left the ambulance." Turning the taps on, to much rattling and banging until the anaemic flow settled, the water began running rusty red as he took her right hand and started to wash off the dried blood. She smiled, enjoying the intimate touch as he cleaned her palm and the back of her hand.

"A couple of things. You never told me that you spoke fluent Russian."

He glanced at her again, with a quirked eyebrow, and responded,

"The subject didn't come up and I haven't needed to speak it myself for years because I had you to translate – you are much better than I."

She shook her head slowly.

"No. You speak it like a native. No accent."

He had started on her fingers now, firm but gentle.

"I had a good teacher before I went and then had a lot of practice while I was in Berlin, especially when I was on the wrong side of the border. Oddly enough, I actually like the language." He looked at her briefly again, with a twinkle in the depths of his eyes. "I would have thought you knew all that, anyway, from when you hacked my personnel file a few years ago as well as from the hard copy you liberated when I asked you to start looking into Jim."

_He knew about the hacking?! _She couldn't stop her cheeks from flushing.

"I did not hack your file!"

He twinkled at her again.

"Well someone did, around a year before you left for Cyprus. It was from the inside and I assumed it was you because no-one else, apart from Malcolm and Colin, had the ability! Or, I hoped, the interest. Malcolm knows everything in the file anyway, and more, and Colin was never the type to go snooping on private details…"

There was a slightly strained silence as she considered that. She really should have known he would have found out. Eventually she laughed and admitted,

"Alright, it was me! But I didn't really take any notice of the languages, I was more interested in – other things."

His lips twitched as he finished washing her hand and moved up to her wrist and fore-arm.

"Were you?"

She refused to be drawn.

"Yes, and no I'm not going to tell you what! You can work that out for yourself."

The grinned at each other for a few seconds until he finished working on her arm and started on his own hands.

"You said a couple of things. What was the other?"

Reaching her wet hand up to rest, cool, against his developing bruise, she suddenly looked serious, blue eyes darkening to sapphire.

"How did you come by this bruise? It wasn't there this morning. And don't try to tell me you walked into a door."

He shrugged.

"One of the guards took it on himself to deliver a little justice on behalf of his father's old friend. Who was also my old friend but he wouldn't know that."

Jim Coaver. She would always cringe inwardly when she heard that name and would spend the rest of her life never quite forgiving herself for the role she had played in his death. Although they were all being manipulated by Elena, perhaps if she herself hadn't been so eager to swallow that particular bait and had actually stopped to dispassionately analyse the evidence she would have realised that it didn't add up. It wouldn't have been hard to persuade Harry, which meant they could have all got together under better circumstances to discuss the issue properly and put together the real story, neutralising Elena and her faction and preventing Jim's death. At this point, though, she managed to push the guilt back and instead focussed on what Harry was saying.

"He appointed himself judge, jury and executioner? With absolutely no evidence?"

"With no evidence and no warning. While I couldn't protect myself or retaliate."

At that she took his jaw – carefully – in her hand and turned his head to face her, a frown between her brows.

"Meaning what, exactly?"

"I was handcuffed and seated at the time."

The frown deepened.

"Are you telling me you were beaten whilst in CIA custody?"

Again he shrugged.

"It was only one punch and I managed to mostly roll with it. I've been through considerably worse than that, notably at the hands of the IRA." He gave a sideways smile. "Which I'm sure you do know about from hacking my file!"

"Harry! Be serious!"

"I am. In the greater scheme of things this was nothing. He felt he had a right and, to be honest, he may have. If I hadn't abducted Jim, Elena's people wouldn't have had the opportunity—"

"Wrong," she interrupted. "She would have dealt with him one way or the other. He knew too much, had stopped you extracting her and Sasha, wrecking that part of her plan, and wasn't tangled in her web so once he arrived in this country he was a direct danger to her plans once he had played his part, especially if he started talking directly to you. As such, he was a marked man." He had finished washing up by now and was about to turn the tap off when she stopped him, passing her hand under the flow again and scrubbing at a smear on his cheek and throat. "I wish we knew what was on that laptop. I should have just got in the car and driven off, instead of letting curiosity get the better of me."

He grabbed her hand and kissed it.

"I think I do know. I suspect the file he had connected Elena and her faction to everything, probably going right back to the start. He never did trust her the way I did – said the information she was giving us was too good to be true which, in hind-sight, it was. He was right and I should have listened to him, then and now. He was the only CIA operative I've ever known who was absolutely straight with me, all the time. And he genuinely was a friend."

The pain in his eyes was raw and she finally realised just how much he had paid over the past few days. They had all essentially forgotten about Coaver in the rush of other events but clearly Harry hadn't – he may have appeared unmoved at the time but it was now patently obvious that he was anything but – and her own guilt flared up again. If she had been objective she could have re-focussed Harry's attention towards the correct source and she would have been more careful about what she had said in that bridge meeting to Jim himself, instead of poisoning his mind with the suggestion that his old friend was succumbing to paranoia. And there would have been no kidnapping and no squealing to the Home Secretary and no need to steal a laptop from the depths of the CIA's London headquarters, only to lose it to the FSB… She didn't know if she was ever going to be able to discuss her own culpability on that subject with this man, let alone forgive herself. Caressing his cheek she started to say,

"Harry, don't blame yourself—" when footsteps clattered in the corridor outside and Calum stuck his head in the doorway.

"We've done what we can and it's getting dark. Ready to go?"

The older man turned the tap off, shook as much of the water off his hands as he could and turned towards the techie.

"Yes, I believe so."

Erin and Dimitri closed up after them and they headed towards the car park. When they got there the younger woman asked,

"Are you alright to drive, Harry? You look terrible."

"Thank you for the compliment, Ms Watts! I will be fine. We should head back to the Grid for a debrief and to get the MO to stitch Ruth's arm."

"Okay. We'll see you there."

The trio headed towards their vehicle while Harry and Ruth were getting into his. He leaned back into his seat for a moment, eyes closed and looking totally spent; Ruth's touch on his hand heralded her voice, warm and concerned.

"_Are_ you okay? It's not too late to grab one of the others to do the driving."

Opening his eyes again he turned his head to face her, smiling in a way to make her heart leap.

"I'm fine, just tired, and I don't want a driver, although if you had two functional arms and hadn't lost so much blood I would be giving you the keys. Right now, I just want some time for us, alone."

They continued to gaze at each other, without speaking, until the other vehicle crunched past, breaking the spell. Harry sighed and started the car and they followed the others into the darkening gloom that was now starting to rain as well. The journey was silent to start with: Harry was exhausted and concentrating on driving while Ruth, also physically drained, was still cogitating on the events of the past few hours, what she had realised about the man seated next to her and the fact that she had actually suggested what she had been thinking about for so long. The swish of the windscreen wipers was hypnotic, as were the glittering head and tail lights of the traffic around them, so the silence, companionable, between them continued for the first half of the trip. They were passing through the eastern outskirts of the rather dispiriting industrial area of Dagenham, slowed to a crawl because of the traffic and the river only occasionally glimpsed as light slicks off to the left between massive freight terminals, the power station and oil storage tanks, when Harry said quietly,

"How is the arm?"

"Bearing up, as long as I don't move it too much. I don't know how you have survived all your injuries, though, I wouldn't care to go through this more than once."

He flashed a grin at her.

"It may surprise you to know that getting stabbed, shot, beaten or thrown out of moving cars isn't something I actually go looking for!"

"No? And here was I thinking you would probably like to add getting caught in a bomb blast to your list."

"Too late, I've already done that, too."

She continued to gaze at him, trying to fathom his complexity, but eventually gave up and murmured, just audible over the low levels of Mozart coming from the radio,

"You are an extraordinary man, Harry Pearce."

He flicked a glance at her, slightly perplexed, before returning his attention to dealing with the peak-hour traffic.

"For taking a few in the line of duty? I'm very glad you think so, my love, but I would have to disagree. I've been lucky. Bill, Ros, Adam and Fiona, Jo, Helen, Danny, Jim and all the others are far more worthy of that epithet than I."

She continued to gaze at him, a slight smile on her lips, before trying to clarify her thoughts a little, something that was getting harder as the last of the adrenaline began to wear off and she became increasingly tired. God knows how he was holding himself together – nothing more than bloody-mindedness and an iron will, she suspected.

"You're wrong, you know. Not about them but about yourself. I wasn't just referring to the injuries. I was referring to how you manage to retain your humanity, no matter what – you displayed that this afternoon with the compassion you showed towards Ilya and Sasha Gavrik. Not too many others would have even thought about what they were going through, let alone tried to ease the situation the way you did."

He gave a slight shrug.

"There was no point acting any other way. We had all paid the price, one way or the other, so all that was left was civility. Ilya and Sasha have suffered far more than any of the rest of us because of Elena." He was silent for a moment before tears briefly filmed his eyes. "Apart from Jim and his family, of course. He has a son about the same age as Wes Carter, a daughter who is a little older and a six year old girl as well."

That comment elicited two internal reactions for Ruth: the first was to magnify her guilt at least a hundred-fold and the second was to reinforce the conclusion she had come to very recently, that she had been so focussed on her own self for so long that she had become, without realising it and without any intention, selfish. Unlike Harry, she had lost the ability to see the bigger picture and had been like that since she had been forced into exile, locked in a self-perpetuating cycle of self-pity that blinded her to the needs of everyone else, including George and Nico and, most of all, the man sitting next to her. After Albany she had vowed to be better but then the old habits had come flooding back as soon as the Gavriks were on the scene and it had only been today, with Elena's revelations, that she realised how badly she had been treating him again. He had really been stuck in that proverbial spot between a rock and a hard place when dealing with the Russian's shenanigans and, by her negative responses, she had added an unnecessary bed of nails to his position. Even when he had urged her to join the Home Secretary's staff he had only been thinking of her, although she had chosen to see it differently, and she now realised just how much he had hated involving her at all with the entire Russian mess. But she had pushed and pushed and, in reality, he hadn't had much choice. Had Malcolm still been around it may have been different but he wasn't so, in the end that was it. No choice at all. She reached out to stroke his cheek, gently, avoiding the burgeoning bruising by tracing the line of his cheekbone.

"And that sort of comment is exactly what I mean. No matter what, your first thought is always for everyone else, never yourself, which is why you are extraordinary."

He was quietly buoyed by her words and even more by the touch but didn't respond verbally, instead smiling before taking her hand and kissing it. As the car continued to crawl forward the silence took over briefly, as they both returned to their thoughts. Her words and touch had taken him back to that moment on the water-front when she had voiced her own extraordinary suggestion; his smile had returned her to exactly the same moment. After pondering for a little longer she reached out to lay her hand over his where it was resting on the gear-stick.

"You still haven't answered me, you know."

A slow smile curved his lips and he flicked another sideways glance at her, twining his fingers through hers.

"I know. I was about to when Sasha got in the way."

She continued to watch him, expecting more, but all she got was silence. Now it was her turn to be perplexed; she had be certain he had been about to agree but now he was just sitting there, concentrating on the traffic. Albeit with the slight smile still present. _He's winding me up, the bastard!_ Leaning forward a little so she could see him better she asked,

"_Well_?"

He was enjoying keeping her in suspense and, under better circumstances, might have succumbed to the temptation of teasing her a bit more but right now he was too tired and thought they had both been through enough for one day so he just responded, quietly and simply,

"Yes. I will be delighted to run away to Suffolk – or anywhere else – with you. My resignation has been written for the past three months so it will be signed, delivered and effective immediately this evening and then I'm all yours."

He lifted their hands off the gear stick and turned hers over, dropping a soft, sensuous kiss into her palm, sending a surge of energy through her. _He said yes. He said __**yes**__!_ Her eyes flooded with tears and something that might have been a sob escaped her as she watched him, wide-eyed with disbelief. Aware of her luminescent gaze on him Harry asked mildly,

"That was the right response, wasn't it?"

A half strangled laugh gurgled up through the tears.

"Yes, you idiot!"

At that he broke into one of his sunny grins.

"Good. I didn't want to get it wrong again."

Suddenly the traffic started to move faster so the conversation lapsed for a few moments. Ruth recovered her composure a little and went searching for some more of the courage that fuelled her earlier comment. Clearing her throat she said hesitantly, staring directly forward through the windscreen at the string of cars in front of them,

"I have got no right to hope for any more from you but I'm going to say this anyway." She hesitated again, taking a deep breath before plunging on. "You know I have bitter regrets about my response in a certain graveyard."

'_No,' _he thought, '_I had no idea at all,'_ but wisely forebore saying anything, choosing to continue concentrating on the traffic. He just hoped that whatever was coming was good because he was too tired to take anything else. For Ruth, his silence was neither encouraging nor discouraging so, deliberately over-riding the deeply-ingrained impulse to back off to a safe distance, she instead dropped her eyes to her free hand, now resting in her lap, and continued,

"Well, it's just that I would like… if you can ever forgive me for what I said that day and, and afterwards… should you still think – Christ, this is hard! – maybe we could do more than run away to live together. One day."

The silence stretched on until the swish of the windscreen wipers started to get on her nerves. Perhaps she had pushed it too far, expecting him to still be interested in marriage after her flat denial and then the botched explanation that even she hadn't fully understood as she delivered it. Or maybe this was another example of that – maybe she wasn't clear enough and he hadn't understood what she was suggesting. Staring out the window she tried to battle a rising sense of panic, totally unaware that his lack of response was due to complete and utter surprise being swiftly followed by wondering if she meant what he thought she meant. Continuing to appear impassive on the surface his heart was suddenly beating ninety to the dozen as he finally looked at her and asked carefully,

"Is this an oblique way of asking me to marry you, Ruth?"

Her natural inclination was to drop her head but she kept it lifted this time and looked him straight in the eye.

"Yes. If you're still interested in doing that, although I wouldn't blame you if you're not." He hadn't said a flat-out 'no' so she allowed the slightest of smiles to tug at her lips. "In fact, if we weren't in the car I would be on one knee, begging you!"

His own smile twitched in return. Today was just getting more and more bizarre: this morning he had been facing extraordinary rendition to the US; now, after threatened and actual death and destruction and while they were both half soaked in drying blood, he was being proposed to by the woman he had loved for so long and thought he had lost, one way or the other. He was almost scared of what might happen next but put that thought aside and instead responded,

"Go on, then. You may have a dry run on the words before we get somewhere for you to put the bended knee into practice. Just as well it is you doing it, if I have to get down on one or both knees again today I won't be able to get back up…"

Her almost-smile widened into a grin as she almost gave in to the temptation to giggle – exhaustion was getting the better of both of them by now – but instead schooled her face into a more suitably serious expression and asked,

"Sir Harry Pearce, will you do me the inestimable honour of consenting to become my husband?"

He did laugh at the way she put it.

"Very Austen! Yes, Ms Evershed, I will. However, I should warn you not to get your heart set on the title because I fear I will not have it for much longer."

Her silly grin returned, echoed by his own, and her blue eyes danced.

"Pfft to titles! We can always buy another one over the internet!" She felt herself melting into a gooey pile of happiness as she gazed at him, also unable to believe the way the day was developing, but eventually reality started seeping back in. Reaching for his hand again she added, more quietly, "I will tell William that he is losing his security advisor when you talk to the DG."

"In about half an hour, then." She nodded and he lifted her hand to his lips again before letting it go and sighing in some frustration, "If there was anywhere to pull over I would so I could kiss you properly but it will have to wait. Bugger peak hour traffic!"

"It looks like my timing and choice of location is almost as good as yours!"

He sighed.

"I might not be your boss any more, Ruth, but there's no need to be cheeky." She did laugh at that, an echo from the long-distant past and another time they were in a vehicle in peak-hour traffic… "Tell me about your – our – new house instead. The one you are buying by the seaside. Describe it to me."

She knew he was trying to keep them both awake so smiled and answered, wondering where to start,

"Right. It's got a green front door. The paint on it is peeling." She gave a little laugh. "The woman said I'd want to change it but I love it."

_That was her to a tee,_ he thought, smiling gently. _Never one for new and shiny, she always preferred old, with character._ Another thought suddenly struck him. _Maybe that's why she wants me…_ Absurdly amused by the thought he managed to choke off the laugh – too hard to explain at this time of this day – and instead encouraged her to continue.

"And inside? Tell me about that. How many bedrooms has it got?"

"Two." She reached for his hand again. "One's only small though. I thought it could be your office."

_She __**had**__ been planning!_

"My office?"

Suddenly her voice and expression became serious again and said carefully,

"I told you I couldn't picture myself living there. But really, I couldn't picture myself living there without you." Somehow his heart soared and broke simultaneously and he realised, without the shadow of a doubt, that they had finally made the right decision after so many years of getting it wrong.

"Then we are going to live there, Ruth. Together. We're going to have a home and a life. Normality."

The intensity in his voice was the final thing she needed to convince her that it was, finally, all going in the right direction. She wanted to burst into tears, suddenly exhausted again, but restrained the impulse, smiling tremulously instead as she squeezed his fingers.

"I can't believe this is actually happening. I was at the point of thinking that we were never meant to have those things. A home, a life where we don't have to spend every day looking over our shoulders…"

"So was I," Harry murmured, still feeling like he was in some sort of alternate universe. Most of it was nothing more than exhaustion, he knew that, but some of it was genuine. He knew that in years to come they would look back on this day in stunned amazement, as though it was some Dali-esque version of an ancient Greek tragedy. The traffic ground to a snail's pace again and silence fell over them, both fighting to stay awake, until he asked, so quietly she could barely hear, "What changed your mind? About us? Up until this afternoon I had actually, finally, given up hope. I thought the Gavriks had been the last straw."

"No," she sighed, wondering how she was going to find a way to put it all into words but find a way she would, she owed him that much. "That just – crystallised – what I wanted: you, and a life away from all of this." After a short silence she went on, fighting to keep her voice level, "I have never been so jealous of anything or anyone in my entire life as I was of Elena Gavrik. Of what she had had with you and what I thought she still had…and I found myself tied up in the old knots again, putting us both through hell for nothing because of the double-thinking, the agonising and misinterpretations stemming from my obsession with secrets and lies." She turned to look at him, her face almost impassive but her eyes roiling. "Then, after those first few days of working at the Home Office, watching a completely different world going on its merry way with its own interconnecting spirals, I had something of an epiphany. I finally realised that it's not all about me – whatever environment I am in, I am just part of it, not its centre, and that I send out ripples of my own to affect others, not only the other way around, so I needed to get off my high-horse and start looking outside of myself. And, doing that, I just got sick of it all. Secrets and lies: every person on the planet is made of them and ninety-nine percent of them _don't matter _in the wider scheme of things. Elena was right – I'm not so good with people, especially personal relationships, and it's because I've been too inward-looking." She shook her head at her own lack of perspicacity and returned to staring through the windscreen while Harry continued to absorb what she was saying with a mixture of disbelief and relief. "I belatedly realised that you were telling me nothing but the truth on that bench that day: I _do _know everything about you, everything that is important – the rest is just static on the airwaves that can be ignored. You have never betrayed any of us, especially me, whereas I have been mis-judging you ever since I returned and, looking back, even before I left. And I betrayed you when I made that phone call to William Towers…" She gave a small, harsh, laugh. "I've been carrying so much anger and bitterness for so long, taking it out on you, and all for nothing, and now I have betrayal to add to my sins."

"You didn't have much choice but to tell him," he interjected gently but she wasn't listening. Now she had started, it was proving difficult to stop. Instead, she shook her head and went on, disbelief at herself writ large in her voice and on her face,

"I had just begun to see the light, when we were trying to sort things out during your leave before the enquiry, and then I reverted to mis-trust and suspicion so quickly when the Gavriks appeared that I shocked myself. I hated that but didn't seem to be able to stop it." She glanced across at him again, unable to read his expression in the dim light, and admitted slowly, "I'm not very proud of myself, for how I've been treating you and for what I've done. Then, hearing Elena admit today to decades of nasty little mind games with you, I finally understood that I was no different: in my own way I've been doing the same thing to you ever since I came back."

Her voice tailed off and Harry said, his own bitterness leaking into his voice,

"Don't compare yourself with Elena. She's in a league of her own when it comes to secrets, lies and manipulation. Look at what she did to Ilya and Sasha."

She squeezed his hand, suddenly looking as exhausted as he felt.

"Don't white-wash what I've done, Harry. I've been doing a lot of thinking lately and the result was something rather shameful but it underscored that I was genuinely sick of it all and the only way out that I could see would be to try my hardest to return to that trust that we had re-established and go after what I really wanted, breaking the cycle of reversion. The only way I can see to do _that _is to get out of not only the job but the whole _milieu_ and start over somewhere else, hence the house in Suffolk. So I thought I should take the risk of asking you if you were interested, despite knowing I was within a hair's breadth of losing you. Not to Elena – I realised that after our little conversation in the car park – but because I had treated you so appallingly for the last few years and had probably pushed you away one time too many."

_Well, that was completely unexpected,_ he thought but he couldn't deny the accuracy of what she was saying, especially the last part. When he had first chosen to tell her the truth – correction, what he had _thought_ was the truth – about Sasha and Elena he had done so knowing what her response would likely be but hoping it wouldn't and had been saddened when she lived up to his expectations. It was then that he realised that it was never going to work between them because, no matter what he did, it always seemed to be wrong. After he had gone home and spent a sleepless night thinking about it, he had come to a decision and, despite it breaking his heart to do so, he had begun to disengage himself from her, letting her go to a life where she would be happier in her work and could find someone more suitable for a relationship. It wasn't entirely altruistic because he also recognised that he had reached the end of the road, too: he could not take any more emotional turmoil so drawing a line beneath everything and removing himself to start again was the only option he could see for himself as well. And then had come the God-sent offer of the job from Towers, in the midst of all the mess, to get her out, away and safe and give them both the time to get used to the idea of no longer seeing each other every day and, eventually, not at all. He had been hoping it would give her some clarity and obviously it had, it was just that the outcome was diametrically opposed to that which he had been expecting. He sighed and stroked his thumb over her palm.

"You weren't pushing me away. I was releasing you. Towards a better life without me and my disasters in it, one that would give you what you want."

"You are what I want, Harry. And you are _not_ a disaster. Although right now you look like one!"

He suddenly grinned and shot back,

"Pot, kettle and black, madam. Had a look at yourself in the last hour, have you?"

"If I had the energy I'd swat you for that comment!"

"No, you had better keep what energy you've got for getting down on one knee—"

His phone rang, shattering the mood.

"Home Secretary."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: a huge thank you to all of my readers and, particularly, those of you continuing to take the time to review. Your thoughts are always interesting and welcome. This is another long one, I'm afraid, but I hope it's not too painful!**

**4. Evening, on the road to London and the Grid. England.**

"Harry. Where are you?" The tone of voice didn't sound encouraging but then that was hardly surprising after the day's events.

"Crawling through Dagenham in peak-hour traffic on the way back to Thames House."

Towers' voice was as hard as either of them had ever heard.

"What the bloody hell has been going on?"

They glanced at each other, both sets of tired eyes mildly apprehensive.

"I don't—"

"Shut. Up." The politician's voice cut him off, sharply. "We have just had reports from a private airfield outside the city of a Russian-registered private jet taking off without clearance after four carloads of FSB agents forced their way through the perimeter and off-loaded three passengers, one of whom was injured and another of whom appeared to be dead. They fit the description of the Gavrik family and they boarded the plane while the FSB were holding airfield security at gun-point. After the past 24 hours I think you owe me a fucking explanation, Harry, there is shit hitting the fan from all directions. Is Ruth with you?"

Harry squeezed his eyes shut momentarily while Ruth crumpled back into her seat. The bloody idiots. Had he not been clear enough in his instructions to the FSB commander to avoid _at all costs_ drawing attention to themselves? For Christ's sake… Sighing inwardly he answered, having a feeling about what was coming next.

"Yes."

"I thought as much. Bring her and whomever else from your team is involved in this bloody debacle to my office as soon as you get back. I will expect you within the hour and the DG will also be there."

"I'm afraid I can't do that, Home Secretary. We need an MO in attendance as soon as we arrive. Ruth is in need of some attention."

That silenced the politician for a moment. When he spoke again his tone was somewhat mollified and genuinely concerned.

"What's happened? Is she okay?"

"I'm fine, William," Ruth finally spoke up. "I just need some stitches. Harry will need looking at by a doctor as well."

A muttered,

"Jesus Christ," came through the speaker, followed by a hefty sigh. "Very well. We will meet at the DG's office at Thames House instead. And we will have a doctor on hand. Don't delay!"

The call was abruptly terminated, leaving the couple even more drained than they had been. Neither said anything for a few moments so the only sound in the car was the soft music on the radio – Albinoni's _Adagio_ now – the rain on the roof and the constant beat of the windscreen wipers. They were still barely crawling in an endless line of twinkling ruby lights, although the glittering diamonds coming from the opposite direction had at least broken into a walk, and ahead they could see the strings of floodlights and flashing beacons on the cranes still working on some of the venues for next year's Olympics. Finally Ruth sighed and squeezed Harry's hand.

"That will be Suffolk out the window for a while, then."

Harry had been too tired to even think about what any of it would mean, he was just barely aware of feeling as flat as a tack, but her somewhat philosophical comment made him frown and he said, bluntly,

"For me. I will take full responsibility. It shouldn't affect your plans."

"I've already told you I've got no intention of living there on my own—"

"Ruth, they're going to want a scapegoat," he spelled out carefully. "I'm already finished – I was only back on sufferance, in case you'd forgotten – so I'm willing to put my head on the block. This axe has been going to fall for a long tim, I've just made it easier for them to justify and in any case they won't get a chance to sack me because I'm going to quit as soon as we walk in, remember."

Yes, she knew that but was he really so tired that he couldn't see what was more likely to happen? She gazed at him and shook her head, responding equally carefully.

"They won't let you resign. You will end up in prison instead."

"Perhaps." He suddenly grinned. "Better that than face rendition to the US again!"

She couldn't believe it: he was actually being facetious while he was staring down the barrel of a metaphorical gun.

"We both know you weren't responsible for Jim Coaver's death and William and the DG will know that soon as well." Just the thought of what was coming was firing her up again, he could see that, could see the sparks in her eyes.

"The CIA don't see it that way," he reminded her gently. "We will see soon enough, anyway." He reached for his phone and punched in Erin's number. Presumably they were tied up in the traffic somewhere in the vicinity as well. When she answered he said briefly,

"Erin. Slight change of plans. We all need to attend a meeting with Towers and the DG, at the DG's office, immediately. I'll explain what has happened when we get there," then hung up before she could say anything. In the other vehicle, 200 yards further west, the trio looked at each other before Calum finally said what they were all thinking.

"What the hell was that about?"

Dimitri, behind the wheel, didn't say anything, just shrugged, content to let all be revealed when they got to Thames House. Erin, more direct, snapped from the front passenger seat,

"He said he'd tell us when we got there so enjoy the peace while we've still got it," then went back to wondering what else had gone wrong. No doubt it was the bloody Russians again…

Suddenly disgorged from the hold-up, the traffic started moving again and within fifteen minutes both vehicles were back at Millbank. Harry was in no mood to dally so they all crammed into one lift and headed up to the top floor. The four more junior members of the group took the opportunity to gaze around the plush corridors as they walked to the DG's office: soft carpeting, subdued lights, original pieces of art on the walls and a stultifying silence that was far removed from the floor of the Grid. Sensing what she was thinking, Harry said quietly to Ruth,

"I silently thank you every time I have to come up here for your assistance in helping me avoid getting buried in this mausoleum!"

She grinned, remembering those intense sessions from half a decade ago, but didn't have time to reply as they had arrived at the heavy, ornate door. Harry didn't even pause for breath but pushed through, unceremoniously leading his small group into the inner sanctum where two men and a woman were waiting for them. The office was, if anything, even more spectacular than the corridors, laden with tasteful antiques and with huge windows featuring a stunning view of the night-time city over the river. Again using speed to his advantage Harry said,

"Good evening, gentlemen," to Towers and Justin Everett before turning to the woman. "Doctor Munro, I'm very happy to see you. Ruth has sustained a knife injury to the upper arm and lower ribcage on her left side: she has been treated by paramedics but the arm needs stitches. If you could attend to it?"

Karen Munro, long used to dealing with Sir Harry Pearce, just nodded and indicated to Ruth to follow her into a side room. Ruth had other ideas, though.

"No. Deal with it here. I'm not going to be absent during this conversation."

"Ruth—" Towers broke in, almost pleading, but she cut him off, voice hard.

"It's either this way or I wait to get the treatment afterwards."

Thus left with no choice, two of the most powerful men in the country wilted and let her have her way. They had both been stunned into silence when the door slammed open and the bloodied and battered pair had walked in, followed by a trio who were also starting to visibly tire; now, left flat-footed, neither of them quite knew where to start so eventually it was Harry who kicked the meeting off as the doctor began attending to Ruth's injury.

"Can you tell us exactly what happened at the airport this afternoon?"

The DG and Towers looked at each other, aware that, somehow, control of the meeting had been wrested from them before it even started, before the former sighed and complied, although the Home Secretary had already given them the essentials. The Russian entourage had arrived at the private airfield where a business jet belonging to Kaspgaz had been parked for the previous few days. The aeroplane itself had become the focus of a sudden frenzy of activity about an hour before the Gavriks' arrival, with its crew arriving in a hurry and the refuelling truck called over. When the FSB convoy had arrived they had attempted to gain access to the apron but did not have the required clearance; they had argued, the airfield security had first dug their heels in and then got suspicious and after that it had rapidly gone down-hill. Eventually weapons had been produced, the security staff had been forced to open the gates to airside and the vehicles carrying the Gavriks had rolled over to the base of the aircraft steps. Sasha had been assisted up the stairs, obviously in extreme pain; Ilya, grim faced, had followed and, finally, one of the larger FSB agents had carefully carried the limp form of Elena into the plane. According to the reports, she appeared to be dead. Once on board, the remaining FSB agents had put away their weapons, leaving the shocked security staff wondering what had happened, and disappeared back towards the city while the jet had already been taxiing for the runway before the retreating Russians had even cleared the perimeter fence. The plane had taken off without lodging a flight plan and without gaining clearance from air traffic control and was now in international air space, clearly bound for Moscow.

Harry and his group listened in silence, all of them except him focussing on their own indeterminate spots on various floors and walls. His eyes were closed as he fought off an overwhelming tiredness while silently but fluently cursing the Gavrik family to the far side of Purgatory. In the background he could dimly hear the quiet voice of Karen Munro talking to Ruth as she worked; after a few more seconds Towers cleared his throat and said, surprisingly calmly and quietly,

"Your turn now, I think, Harry. What went wrong? I thought it was all under control after I had spoken to Gavrik."

Opening his eyes again Harry looked over at the Home Secretary and realised, belatedly, that the politician looked and sounded almost as tired as he and the others felt. It had been a long 24 hours for him as well; after having been nearly killed in the van explosion the previous day he had been up most of the previous night fighting off the CIA's demands and then today, still rattled and a little under the weather from the bomb blast, had been subjected to the stress of having to, firstly and under serious protest, hand his Head of Counter-Intelligence over to the Cousins and secondly, within hours, convene COBRA to deal with the apparent terrorist threat. No wonder he looked more than a little care-worn.

For his part, Towers had started to cool down as soon as he had heard that his security advisor had been injured and by this stage of the day just wanted to know the truth so they could put an end to it. He glanced over at Ruth, now having her arm re-dressed after being stitched and looking dead tired, then at Harry, half covered in dried blood and, if possible, appearing more exhausted than the rest of them combined, and realised that bluster was going to get none of them anywhere so therefore had spoken more gently than he otherwise would have.

Speaking as succinctly as Everett had, Harry summarised the events between the phone call from Ilya and the Russians' departure, calling on Erin to fill in the gaps of what had happened inside the bunker after he had walked out. The clinical, unemotional speech left both Towers and the DG strangely unsettled as they realised just how close they had come to being manipulated into committing an act of war on behalf of a bunch of unknown Russian ultra-nationalist terrorists and any residual anger at Harry and his team for how they had behaved today finally disappeared.

Silence fell again as the doctor brought Ruth back over to join the group, helping her into a seat next to Harry.

"I will go and get those pain-killers for you, Ruth, but you must come back to see me tomorrow so I can check those wounds and make sure they're not getting infected." She turned to leave but Ruth laid her right hand on her arm.

"You need to check Harry before you go—"

"Ruth," he protested weakly, "I'm fine. I told you I've had a lot worse than this and—"

"Let the doctor be the judge of that—"

"A lot worse than what, exactly?" The Home Secretary sounded exasperated and in no mood for argument. Ruth glanced over at him, eyes strangely hard.

"He was beaten whilst in CIA custody."

The Home Secretary's face suddenly changed from exasperated tiredness to granite-like suspicion but before he could say anything the DG cut in with a sharp,

"_What?_"

Towers finally found his voice.

"Is that true, Harry?"

No-one answered immediately. Erin and Dimitri were studiously avoiding anyone's gaze, Calum was trying to appear innocent and not succeeding very well and Ruth was staring at Harry, silently willing him to speak, while the man himself leaned back in his chair and briefly closed his eyes yet again. Wasn't this damned day ever going to end?

"To an extent," he ground out, slowly and reluctantly. The DG's breath hissed as he drew it in before asking,

"What extent, exactly?"

"Not much."

The two men stared at each other, Harry just wanting to get on with things and both Everett and Towers wanting more details in the hope that it would offer them a justifiable way of denying the Americans their now-strident requests for his head. Karen Munro's soft voice broke the impasse.

"Let me at least have a look. I can see a bruise on your jaw; anywhere else?" Handling him gently she put a hand under his chin and forced him to look up at her while she examined the swelling. Karen had been with the Service for almost as many years as Harry and had patched him up on more occasions than she cared to remember so when she gave him a look which he recognised would brook no fibs he finally gave up.

"One or two but you won't find any marks to prove it. The pair who loaded me into the vehicle knew what they were doing."

Horrified, Ruth went to reach out to him with her left hand, forgetting until it stopped her that it was tied up in a sling.

"You didn't tell me that."

His dark eyes were wells of exhaustion as he focussed on her and explained, gently,

"There was no point. It was over and done with and I'll survive, although I really am getting too old for all of this."

"Yes, you probably will and you definitely are," Munro broke in, letting him go. "But I want to see you tomorrow as well, just in case. Is that all?"

"_Yes._"

"Not quite." It was Erin, finally looking up from her intense inspection of the pattern on the carpet beneath her feet. "You had better check his wrists as well. He was cuffed with cable ties when we sprung him from the boot of that vehicle this morning and things were looking nasty when we took them off." She looked guiltily at her boss. "Sorry, Harry."

"You were being transported in the _boot _of the vehicle? Restrained with _cable ties_?" Towers' voice was a mixture of fury and outraged disbelief_. So much for the fucking Yanks and their promises of honourable treatment._ And they wondered why they had the nasty reputation that they did among the rest of the world. Well, that was the final nail in the coffin of them ever getting hold of Harry again, if he had anything to do with it.

Harry himself didn't say anything, just gave Erin a look which would have normally reduced her to ashes, but she stood her ground and he wordlessly held said wrists up for examination. The doctor checked the chafing and found a couple of spots where the plastic had cut deep, the wounds appearing to have been weeping blood at some recent point but covered by the other blood-stains on his shirt cuffs, so she dressed them quickly and then went off to get the pain medications, leaving the group in privacy. A heavy silence fell, and continued for long enough for everyone to start feeling a little uncomfortable. Eventually Towers heaved a sigh and gazed at the bruised and bloodied couple sitting opposite him, clearly dead on their feet as he was himself, and said, a little sadly,

"Well, that explains a lot, I suppose. You people really know how to scare the rest of us when you want to, Harry."

Dark eyes stared back at him, expressionless, but the voice that answered was notably wry under its tiredness.

"You weren't the only ones who were scared, Home Secretary."

The DG finally spoke again.

"Do we know who it is that Elena Gavrik was working for?"

"No." Harry shook his head, "although it shouldn't be too hard to follow up. Jim Coaver had identified a woman called Veronica Duran who was probably working for them, so you could start with her. If you're feeling brave you could ask the CIA if Jim backed up any of the files from his computer onto their network somewhere."

"Very funny, Harry," Towers cut in. "They're still screaming for your head on a plate, even louder now that Robyn Hood and her merry men liberated their package from them this morning." Ruth blushed at that but refused to admit anything; Erin and Dimitri remained stoic and imperturbable while Calum continued staring at the wall, for once in his life realising it was better to keep his mouth shut but silently planning on doing a little hacking of a certain mainframe located in Langley, Virginia, tomorrow. If he didn't succumb to the temptation to start doing it tonight, when he got home, that was. "This isn't going to go away and the events of today haven't helped matters so we're going to have to work out how to deal with it, although at least now we have a good reason for telling the Americans where to stick their bloody extradition request. I take a very dim view of foreign powers mis-treating British subjects who have gone willingly to assist them with their enquiries."

No one had anything to say to that so the heavy silenced returned for a few moments. Eventually Everett stirred in his seat and murmured into the quiet,

"Sorry to do this to you tonight, Harry, after everything you've been through today, but things really are not looking good for you. We must sort out what we are going to do and we are running out of time."

"There's no problem, Justin. I take all responsibility for recent events and hereby tender my resignation, effective immediately."

His team swivelled their eyes towards him almost as one, disbelief written across each face. Ruth just gazed at him, smiling gently but the two men opposite didn't move and their expressions didn't change.

"It's not that easy, I'm afraid. If we allowed you to resign we would no longer be able to protect you and you need protection, Harry. It's not just the CIA we're dealing with here, although they seem to have a list as long as your arm—"

"They have nothing. Jim was still alive when he left our custody. Does everyone really think I've lost the plot so fucking badly that I would kill one of my oldest friends?" It was only brute force of will that was keeping Harry going by this stage. Physical and psychological exhaustion, now exacerbated by worry over Ruth's injuries – he knew how nasty stab wounds could be – were eroding what little self-restraint remained and his response was harsher than he had intended but by this point he really didn't care. He just wanted out.

Everett gave an irritated sigh. He had always found Harry Pearce to be a thorn in his side, difficult to work with, unpredictable and inclined to go his own way, despite advice or orders from higher up. It didn't help that he had heard the rumours that Harry had been the preferred candidate the last time the position of Director General had come up but had deliberately thrown the interview, meaning that Everett, a much more political animal with considerably less field experience, had come up trumps. He had been delighted at the time but, ever since, had felt uncomfortable around the other man, as Harry not only tended to ignore him but actively went over his head most of the time, and got away with it. Now, here they were, trying to find a way to get out of the hole he had dug for himself and still he being difficult! He would be glad to see the back of him.

The Home Secretary, on the other hand, understood perfectly. Still suffering – silently – from the after-effects of the bomb blast that had killed his chauffeur, he could empathise with Harry's physical pain and exhaustion and, due to the guilt he was feeling for the grief inflicted on the chauffeur's young family, he could even now have an inkling of the psychological pain as well. He had regretted his own harsh words to the other man during their meeting – was it really only that morning? – on the river bank almost as soon as the latter had walked away with the CIA representatives and Ruth's ill-disguised distress during the course of the morning, until they had departed for the partnership signing ceremony, had only made him feel worse so, unlike the DG (a classic upwards-manager if ever he had met one), he felt humbled by what Harry had been prepared to sacrifice and now felt honour-bound to do the right thing and get him out and away before anything worse could happen. He also genuinely like him: they thought the same way on a great many things and that was rare these days, so when it was clear that the DG wasn't going to say any more, he added, in a more conciliatory tone,

"We know that, Harry, but they don't, or not yet. You're the easy option for them to blame and they're raising hell over it. And you _did _kidnap him. On top of that they really are pissed off at both the fact that you were intercepted on the way to their bloody aeroplane and with the way that it was done and are implying that we are so lacking in control of our intelligence services that you are running your own fiefdom—"

"Springing him was my idea, William, you know that." Ruth's words were very quiet but carried clearly, causing both Harry and the DG to turn sharply towards her. The former hadn't had time to consider who might have made the decision when Elena had delivered her ultimatum but, if he had, he would have assumed it was Erin; for Everett, it was another example of Section D running to their own agenda, irrespective of protocols and even when their staff members were no longer officially employed by them. Towers merely looked at his security advisor wearily and responded,

"Yes, I know, and that's part of the problem. The Yanks also want you for questioning, Ruth, they've worked out you're the one who stole that laptop from their secure storage – while you were visiting under my auspices – and blame you for it ending up in the hands of the FSB as well as suspecting you of involvement in snatching your former boss from them, also while in my employment. So not only do they want his head on a plate—" he pointed at Harry "—but they also want yours. And they're using both your activities of late to support their idea that our intelligence services are out of control. Their Ambassador has been in the ear of the bloody Prime Minister today and we are starting to take some serious heat. The events of this afternoon have only added fuel to their fire, no matter what the truth is."

He really was over it all, Harry decided, still struggling to focus through the tiredness and pain. After four decades in the service of his country he had nothing left to give and now it was looking like they were going to throw him to the wolves, not even allowing him the dignified exit of accepting his resignation. Wearily he scrubbed his face and then cast a glance at the women sitting next to him, catching her eye and the glint of fire left in it. She looked shattered – by rights she should have been in hospital after the afternoon they'd had – but clearly had more energy left than he did. Or maybe it was some sort of second wind, or remnant adrenaline because she gave him the faintest of smiles and then turned back to look at the men sitting opposite.

"Then they can have me, when they take Harry, and we will put them right—"

"You can't put them right, Ruth! They don't want that, they want your necks!" Towers shook his head irritably, frustrated by the situation and trying to get it through their heads. He could see that the other three understood the implications; he suspected Harry knew as well but now here was Ruth, being stubborn yet again. "And it's not only them. The PM and the cabinet aren't happy with the pressure being applied from the Americans; they're even less happy with the events surrounding this bloody partnership – the PM went fucking ballistic when we told him about what happened at the airfield, on top of those two assassination attempts—"

"With all due respect, Home Secretary, we saved their precious partnership today, almost sacrificing three lives, in case you'd forgotten Tariq Masood as well as this pair—" Erin, voice hard, gestured at the pair seated in front of her "—in the process. Despite the best efforts of a bunch of psychotic Russian nationalists to derail the process, _including _those two _fake_ assassination attempts, and start a war between our two countries while they were at it by getting us to shoot down an innocent passenger jet. Shouldn't that count for something?"

"We are aware of that, Miss Watts, but it is not just up to us," the DG finally spoke up again, voice icy, not appreciating being spoken to like that by this snip of a girl. "There is the American issue, as we have just discussed. On top of that, we're having to stage a cover-up of what really happened this afternoon to save this 'precious partnership' from collapsing in the glare of a media storm and the Russians are starting to make noises as well."

Harry, Ruth and the other three looked up, incredulous.

"Just what does the Russian government think they've got to complain about? They would be better served dealing with the people who were behind it all." The bitterness in Harry's voice was leavened by a growing fury: he could see what was coming and didn't want to believe it. "Although they had better be quick because otherwise Ilya Andreivitch and Aleksandr Illych will deal with them in their own way. It is personal for them."

Knowing nothing of the ancient background lie, Towers misunderstood and shook his head again.

"It's not just about Elena Gavrik, Harry, although by the sounds of it I wouldn't put it past her son to come after you again one day if he still blames you for recruiting his mother—"

"He won't. He heard the truth in the bunker and, once he calms down, he will understand that. Ilya won't let him, anyway; he, for one, understands exactly… And if the Cousins _really_ want to find out who killed Jim Coaver then maybe you should suggest to them that they talk to Ilya and the FSB because they will all be looking for the same people."

"And that's another thing," Everett interjected. "What makes you think that whoever it was behind Mrs Gavrik won't be coming after you? If they're as powerful as you say she insinuated then you will need to be permanently watching your back against them, too, as will the Minister."

The laugh the other man came out with was as bitter as his previous words had been.

"There you are wrong, Justin. You clearly know nothing about how Ilya Andreivitch works. He will be on their trail as soon as that aeroplane lands in Moscow and he has a long, personal friendship with Vladimir Putin. Between that pair, I would give her backers about a week to get out of town before they are destroyed. It would be less if it were just Putin but Ilya, to give him credit, likes to have everything water-tight before he moves. They won't have time to come after me, even if they have the inclination."

"It's not just about Elena," the Home Secretary repeated, gently, trying to turn the subject back to its original trend. "What the Government has been making noises about is one of their agents who has gone missing. A young chap called Anatoly Arkanov. The last anyone saw of him, apparently, was when he followed Elena to a meeting at a ballet rehearsal. A meeting with you, Harry. A meeting at which Sasha Gavrik was also present. He hasn't been seen since but all of his possessions disappeared that night. Our database says he returned to Moscow but he did not; they say there was a flight booked for him to Panama but he never arrived there, either. Please tell me you had nothing to do with this."

The older man's heart had sunk when Arkanov's name came up. He had hoped that he had covered Sasha's tracks on that issue but obviously the boy himself had slipped up somewhere. Sighing, he sank back into his seat and closed his eyes.

"I didn't kill Arkanov, if that's what you're thinking." Opening them again he was aware of six other gazes fixed on him. "Sasha did. And then blamed me for it and – obligated – me to help him cover it up for the sake of his parents. And I did it for the sake of his parents and the partnership. I made him do most of the work but it looks like he was a little slip-shod. Arkanov himself will not be found."

"Christ, Harry, if they hear even a whisper of that your life won't be worth living."

"It isn't now, by the sounds of it," was the quietly embittered reply. Silence fell in the room as they all considered that piece of information. They could all, even Ruth, recognise the expediency of his actions but it had just made getting out of their present bind even more difficult. Not only the CIA but the FSB and their own PM were on their case and unlikely to give up in a hurry. "Is there anything else you would like to throw in the mix while you're at it?"

Towers cleared his throat and suddenly looked even more uncomfortable.

"Yes. There is the small matter of the Enquiry." Five sets of eyes bored into him, unnervingly laser-like, waiting for him to go on. Towers decided it was a bit like that moment just before a massive storm broke: still, quiet and deadly. Heaving an audible sigh this time he finally expanded on his comment. "You know the panel was stacked against you in the first place, Harry, despite our efforts to even it out. You've pissed a lot of people off in your time, whether they know what you've actually done for them or not, and now it's their opportunity to get rid of you. This is the establishment we're talking about and you know what it's like: it never gives up. It's _never _over for them and they won't stop until you're out of the way."

"I am aware of that, Home Secretary. As I said earlier, I intend to save them the trouble: I will accept all responsibility and tender my resignation. They can then do as they wish."

Everett's voice came out of nowhere again.

"Even for Operation Omega?"

Four of the five people on the other side of the desk exchanged puzzled glances. The fifth turned his hazel eyes towards the DG, suddenly ice-cold, and the other man felt unaccountably like a rabbit caught in the gaze of a snake. For himself, Harry suddenly realised that events had finally, irrevocably passed the point of no return. _Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned _indeed. Jesus Christ, why had he been such a testosterone-driven bloody idiot back then? Wanting to know exactly how much she had already spilled, he asked,

"What, exactly, is Operation Omega?"

"Come on, Harry, don't play the innocent—"

"I'm not, Justin. I'm waiting for an explanation of what you think you know."

"We don't know the details," Towers broke in, "but we've been told that it could bring down the government and MI5 as well as you." The unblinking hazel gaze turned to him and Towers had a momentary inkling of what it must have been like to attempt to face down Harry Pearce in the field and why the man had the reputation he did. Like Everett, that gaze sent a chill down Towers' spine as he caught the veriest glimpse of the other side of the head of Section D and it set him back on his heels for a moment. When no words came with the unblinking gaze he could feel himself breaking into a sweat and finally blustered, "We've been told that the witness has impeccable credentials, Harry. If what has been suggested is true, there really will be nothing we can do to save you."

Dear God but he was sick of this. Had been sick of it for years. As he had told Ruth, he knew it was well and truly past time that he got out and this was the proverbial last straw that was going to do it. Finally blinking, he grated,

"I don't believe I would say Juliet Shaw is impeccable but she is certainly credentialed." The name meant nothing to Erin, Dimitri or Calum but he heard Ruth's sudden intake of breath and glanced over at her, immensely weary. She returned his gaze, her heart and stomach having sunk through the floor at the mention of that name. Another relic of his troubled past, returned to haunt them yet again. All the fight went out of her and she wanted nothing more than to take his hand and walk out of that room, leaving everything behind forever. As if it was going to be that easy. Harry's voice broke her line of thought with a salient point. "I was under the impression she herself was _persona non grata_ with the Establishment since the Yalta affair so what has changed?"

His three underlings had certainly heard of that and exchanged incredulous looks as Towers and Everett glanced at each other. The former hadn't heard of Juliet Shaw before she reappeared – electronically – a few weeks ago from her viper's nest in South America, spitting bile in Harry's direction, but Everett had certainly experienced the joys of working with her, mostly at a distance, but that had been enough to make him steer clear of her ambitious self-interest. Neither man had heard of Operation Omega before Shaw had mentioned it but the little she had insinuated had scared the daylights out of the pair of them: some black op from the far distant past that had the capacity to destroy their careers as well as that of Harry had been enough to make them realise they were going to have to take some drastic action. The DG sighed and answered slowly, carefully,

"She has motor neurone disease and doesn't have long left, Harry. She's back in a wheelchair and wants to come home to die. Shopping you is her ticket back without having to face prosecution. She has friends in much higher places than you or I, unfortunately."

He could believe that. All those chinless scions of the ancient Establishment families who traced their roots back to the Conqueror and beyond whom she had been cultivating for years, the same years that he had been more focussed on the joys of the job. Now, she was reaping her reward whereas he…well, there it was in a nut-shell. His own decades of faithful service to be thrown down the drain for the sake of political arse-covering and keeping the upper echelons of society happy. It was beyond galling but he was so tired he no longer cared, about himself, the job or, to be honest, the country he had spent so long defending. _No, that wasn't true: it wasn't the country. It was the politicians and the religious fanatics and all the other petty little believers with their personal –isms that were dragging everyone down into the gutter._

Neither Towers nor the DG could read his face, although the former caught some inkling of what he was thinking in the older man's hazel eyes, but they were expecting the worst so both were immensely relieved when he responded abruptly but, thankfully, without an explosion,

"Very well. If that comes up it will destroy Six directly, Five by association with me and do the government no good at all, blowing all of us wide open. So what did you plan on doing with me?"

That left them wrong-footed for a moment but Towers recovered first. Speaking gently, he replied,

"The enquiry is due to re-convene on Monday. We can probably hold off both the Russians and the CIA for that long, but no more and we will probably have to have you, and possibly your family, protected against them in the interim anyway – after this morning I no longer trust any American assurances. However, you need to disappear, Harry, for your own safety and that of your kin. Probably permanently."

There it was. The guillotine had finally fallen, as he had always known it would, sooner or later. He supposed he was lucky that it was relatively later. He had plans in place, so it wouldn't be that difficult, but the thought of having to desert his children, again, and Ruth…

A voice, small but determined, broke the silence from next to him.

"I'm going with him."

He reached out a hand to touch hers, where it protruded from the sling.

"There's no need for you to sacrifice yourself again, Ruth—"

"I'm not watching you disappear again, Harry." Her voice cracked and almost broke his heart in the process. "I couldn't cope and I don't want to cope with that. Not now. Not after all this. I'm coming with you."

They gazed at each other, oblivious to the company, while both considered the monumental change that had just occurred. Whatever they had thought might have been the outcome of the enquiry and the recent activities, neither would have thought of this. Still, maybe it wouldn't be so bad, if they went together. They had already decided to start a new, conjoined life: it was just going to be rather newer and more different than either had considered, and probably a very long way away. Quite how they were going to achieve it in a few days was another issue…

"Do you have any plans, then, Home Secretary, as to how we are to achieve this disappearing act? You will forgive Ruth and I for not being quite on the ball tonight."

Flustered, Towers glanced at Everett and replied,

"Well, no, we thought you would be better placed to sort that out."

The heavy silence fell again while everyone in the room considered the implications. Most were too tired to get past the shock but Erin finally asked, hesitantly,

"You two weren't considering getting married, by any chance, were you?"


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: again many thanks to my readers and reviewers. Two chapters today as this one is very short.**

**5. The same time. Central Brisbane. Australia.**

Floor to ceiling plate glass windows displayed a view over the river to die for but none of the people in the legal office were taking any notice. The trees in the Botanic Gardens below waved in, and the faint scent of the last frangipani flowers of the season drifted on, a gentle breeze while sunlight from the wide blue sky above sparkled off the water, disturbed at this early hour of the day only by occasional passing ferries and flocks of seagulls and totally ignored by the group in question. It was a small group in the office, consisting of five people: two women and three men. One of the women and two of the men were the legal representatives from the two local conveyancing firms involved in the property purchase; the remaining pair were the representatives of the purchasing group based in Indonesia. This was the last of a long series of meetings, held in both Brisbane and Jakarta, that was seeing the protracted purchase of a defunct 40,000 hectare cattle station on a permanent river south-east of Kowanyama and about 100km inland of the south-western coast of Cape York finally completed and all parties were keen to get the last of the paperwork done. Signatures were flourished, keys handed over and hands shaken, all in good time for the new owners to depart for the airport for their return flight to Indonesia _via _Singapore, scheduled to depart just after 9.00 a.m.

The vendor's representative left; the buyers' representatives said their final farewells and returned to their inner offices in order to lodge the final paperwork and organise the banking, leaving the other pair in the outer office with the receptionist, waiting as she called a taxi for them. The visitors reverted to their own language for a brief discussion revolving around their purchase and their future plans for it, secure in the knowledge that that could talk openly without being understood. The woman, Agustina Soraya Shinwari, wasn't in the mood to prevaricate; walking over to the window in the reception area to finally take in the view, she said,

"Now that we have finally secured this place we must start moving ahead with the plans. The meeting is less than 18 months away and we must be ready."

The man, Hamzah Rashid, glanced over at the receptionist, working on her computer and oblivious to their words.

"Yes, Ma'am. We will be doing a trial run of the shipping corridor from Merauke to Capricorn Downs _via _the Strait next month. We will also be looking at internal flights and how practical they would be to move people in and out that way, although we would need a local pilot and possibly an aeroplane with false registration."

"Good. See to it. When we get back to Jakarta I will contact the others and we will start moving the technology in and getting the property into suitable shape to house the trainees. I will also begin mobilising our local agents so they can work on the ground here without being noticed. Once the technology is secure they can begin researching the meeting facility and surrounds. We also need to get them to get the cover cattle business going again, so we will need to hire a local manager and some staff. It has to be legitimate, to give no-one an excuse to start sniffing around to see what we're doing—"

The phone on the receptionist's desk chirped; she answered softly and then said,

"Excuse me, folks, but your taxi is waiting outside the lobby."

The pair turned as one, smiled and politely thanked her and then disappeared out to the lifts, the receptionist watching them speculatively. Once they had vanished behind the closed doors of the elevator she returned her attention to her computer screen and, within a few seconds, had the number she wanted. Unfortunately for the purchasers the receptionist, Anglo, middle-aged and unremarkable as she was, had been married for 35 years to a former illegal immigrant who was Indonesian Chinese and she spoke the language as fluently as he did, having spent several periods ranging from weeks to years living in the country, moving between Jakarta, Bandung and Surabaya. So she had understood every single word that had passed between the other pair and, also unfortunately for the purchasers, she still wrote shorthand and had made notes of exactly what was said. She considered what she had heard for a few more moments before drawing the documents relating to the sale that were sitting on her desk awaiting filing over in front of her, pulling out her mobile phone and dialling the number.


	6. Chapter 6

**6.** **Four days later, +4 hours, end of May. Outer Thames Estuary. England.**

The day had continued beautiful, with the sun now half-way up to the zenith, not a cloud in sight and a surprisingly balmy breeze. The barge was just leaving the Thames Estuary, about to enter open water for the short crossing to France, and the swell was beginning to pick up. Sea-birds wheeled overhead and trailed behind, hoping in vain for a free feed; also behind, the mixture of old fortifications, sunken vessels, wind turbines, commercial and private traffic that made the Estuary the buzzing place it was. To starboard, Sheerness was also behind them with the Isle of Sheppey fast disappearing the same direction while to port they had passed, in silence, the abandoned MoD facility where so much had happened three days ago. Ahead, Margate was visible on its cape, ready to mark their final departure from the country.

Harry was standing in the bow, watching the coast recede and considering the roller-coaster of the past few days. The ultimate low of losing absolutely everything immediately followed by the ultimate high of unexpectedly, suddenly, getting the woman he'd loved for a decade. And not only getting her but getting her to the altar before their "death", which was due some time today. The short ceremony had been squeezed into the frantic final days of sorting out his affairs and organising their new identities. Ruth hadn't had much to sort out: on her return from her previous "death" she had bought little and hadn't accumulated much since so she had taken his chosen alter-ego and developed the rest of their identities and history, with considerable unofficial assistance from both Tariq and Malcolm to go with the official work of Calum, while Harry had focussed on disposing of his current life and catching up with Catherine and Graham. His daughter had been deeply unhappy but reluctantly understood; Graham was… Graham. At least they'd had a chance to talk and for once it had been without rancour from his son. The boy – man, now – had been surprisingly quiet once he had understood that his father was serious about what was about to happen.

The wedding had been fitted in late on the third day – yesterday. Erin's idea – that instead of metaphorically folding up their tent and disappearing into the night they actually make a splash by getting married, for real, have a small, private reception and then disappear on honeymoon surrounded by a bally-hoo of good wishes, only to "die" in a spectacularly fiery car accident the next day and have a very public funeral – had been somewhat audacious and put the couple on the spot but, after thinking about it and a brief discussion between the five of them (ignoring the Home Secretary and the DG), they could all see that it would work and had run with it. Everett had not been completely sold on the plan but Towers could see the sense of it (and knew it would give the pair something he knew they both desperately desired, no matter how deeply that desire was buried) and had pulled rank, taking a perverse joy in helping to organise the event in record time.

Quietly, and independently, both Harry and Ruth had come to the realisation that the ceremony was more than just part of the act for them. The night before the wedding the subject had come up naturally in their conversation as he had been changing the dressing on her arm and they had both admitted the importance of actually having the ceremony and getting it legally registered had attained in their thoughts. Making it real rather than just assuming the role of a married couple along with the new identities. That they would "die" almost as soon as the ink was dry on the paper was neither here nor there...

What had been meant to be a quick and quiet event was quick but certainly not quiet: Catherine and her fiancé, a Kiwi cinematographer called Aron who was a marked improvement on her previous partner, the French diplomat Fabien, were there, as was Graham (a very last minute arrival); Towers and his wife, Charlotte; Ruth's PA, Margot and her partner, Sally; and most of the old crew were also waiting for them when they arrived. Malcolm, Tariq and Leila, the older sister who had been his main nurse ever since he had been poisoned, Dimitri, Erin (along with both her mother and daughter) and even Beth (defiant but carefully steering clear of Erin while openly flirting with Dimitri) had attended, armed with rose petals and best wishes. Ruth had looked like an ancient Greek goddess when she appeared in their bedroom door, ready to go to the registry office, in finely pleated, azure silk nipped in at the waist and accentuated there with a sparkling brooch, three-quarter sleeves covering the bandages on her left arm, sapphires at throat and ears, his great-aunt's art deco diamond on her left hand and her hair pulled up in a simple chignon, held by flowers and a jewelled clip. How his heart had leapt at the sight! As had hers when she saw him waiting, his black-tie elegance not even remotely diminished in her eyes by the slowly fading bruise on his jaw. The quiet dinner planned for afterwards had turned into a party that lasted well into the night: the fact that it had slight overtones of a wake had not escaped either the bride or groom and worried neither of them. On this breezy, sunny morning he smiled at the memory…

Ruth saw the smile, knew what it was about and went out on deck to join her husband. She took a moment to enjoy the sight of him, unaccustomedly dressed in jeans and a heavy, navy blue, cable-knit cotton pullover (no more exquisite Savile Row tailoring), sleeves pushed up to the elbow, revealing strong forearms and hands; walking up behind him, she wrapped her good arm around his waist and squeezed him tight; he manoeuvred to face her and squeezed her in a careful bear-hug in return.

"Hello, Lady Pearce." He kissed her with the soft, sensuousness that he'd discovered, over the past few days, they both enjoyed rather a lot.

"Sir Harry." She kissed him back in the same manner before they both lurched as the boat hit the first big swell. He grabbed her; she grabbed the gunwale, one-handed; they both laughed. "Hope it's not going to be like this all the way over!"

"Doesn't matter if it is – it's a short trip." They kissed some more, Ruth moulding her body to his, before more heavy lurches drove them back to the partial shelter of the starboard side of the wheelhouse. She gazed up at this man she'd married so quickly and without hesitation and momentarily regretted that fate and her timorous self had intervened all those years before, taking so many potential happy years away from them, but he was right: the past was so far away it was unreachable but the future was arriving with every second and they were determined to make the most of every one of them.

"I suppose we should start using the new names…" she said, reluctantly, snuggling up against him with one hand on his chest, absently resting her palm on his heart through the heavy, knitted cotton. Harry sighed, kissed her on the forehead and replied,

"No, not yet. Not until we land on the other side. The accident isn't supposed to happen until this afternoon or tonight so we might as well continue as is while we can."

They remained as they were for a few minutes, watching the last of the coast retreat into the haze. She felt him sigh again, silently, and lifted her face, a slight frown in her eyes.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes." He brushed her hair out of her eyes with a gentle hand. "Strange, but okay. It feels like going on holiday while at the same time knowing it's permanent exile…and that everything that has gone before is over. Forever."

She smiled a little and kissed his hand, ridiculously happy at the sight of the shiny new wedding ring on it. The one that matched hers on the hand still held up in a sling.

"It's not really forever, sweet. It's all still there. We'll just be too far away to take much part any more."

He looked down at her, eyes suddenly sombre.

"How about you, Ruth? This is the second time for you."

She had been thinking about that. It had been a serious case of _deja-vu_ for her this morning, waiting on the dock with a single bag at her feet while the barge manoeuvred its way in to pick them up. This time, of course, it had been Towers who had turned up at the last minute to say good-bye but this time she hadn't left alone. She said slowly,

"It's fine today. I've done it before and know I can do it again, which takes the terror out of it. And I'm not alone this time."

"I've never asked – was it bad, before?"

She laughed, shortly, remembering the complete and utter fear of having been forcibly cut off from everything she knew.

"Oh yes. I literally was absolutely terrified. And lonely. And heart-broken. Spent most of this part of the trip in tears and couldn't think straight for weeks so I just drifted… It's different now, though. Not terrified. And neither lonely nor heart-broken because you're right here. Where you belong. Not back on that bloody dock, getting further and further away with every passing second. Not just a vivid memory or a photo tucked into my wallet that I surreptitiously checked every day."

Harry tightened his hold on her and rocked her gently while he thought about her words. He'd never really considered what she'd felt, he'd been so tied up in his own despair and fury and then the sheer panic of the crisis with Catherine in Beirut landing on him within hours of watching Ruth go, crushing his spirit a little more but at least effectively focussing the anger on something useful. At least he'd managed to bring his daughter home safely at that point in history. The last comment finally filtered though.

"What photo? There aren't that many around, not in the public domain, I've made sure of that. And I wasn't aware you'd ever taken any."

She had the grace to look slightly guilty as she peeked up at him.

"I didn't get it from the public domain. Or anyone's camera." She looked down again, resting her forehead on his chest, the following words muffled. "I liberated a copy of one from your personnel file just before I left. I've still got it. In my wallet."

There was silence for a few seconds until he could keep the laughter to himself any longer.

"That is so like you, Lady Pearce! Ever creative…" Her words had lightened his heart, knowing that she had done exactly the same thing as he had. He still had the photo of her, too, also tucked into his wallet. Her next words brought him back to the present.

"I heard you weren't exactly yourself for a while afterwards, either."

Understatement of the century. He looked down into those opaline eyes and saw only gentle compassion.

"True. Who let that cat out of the bag?"

"Jo. And Malcolm. 'Quietly distraught' was the term he used and she said it took a while but you'd never quite recovered your ebullience... "

He shook his head. So much for thinking he had done a good job on covering things up.

"Bloody sticky-beaks. They were right, though. Especially Malcolm. Trust him to find exactly the right words… And I suppose Jo was telling the truth as well - it wasn't for 'a while'. It was a bit longer than that." He kissed her again and went on, nodding towards the bow of the boat, "No looking back any more though, Fruit. I can see France through the haze." Putting a finger under her chin he tipped her face up and continued, "So, Iona Stafford, are you ready?"

She grinned.

"Absolutely, Laurence Stafford. Onwards and upwards!"


	7. Chapter 7

**Another two short chapters. Once more please accept this as my personal thanks to all of you who are reading and reviewing this work. Your thoughts are always very much appreciated.**

**7.** **Ten hours later. Snowdonia. Wales.**

It was raining heavily up there, deep in the Welsh mountains not far from Snowdon. The narrow road was treacherously slick, the surface like a mirror as the two cars wound their way up to the top of the pass. The lowering base of the clouds enveloped them in mist as they stopped in a lay-by at the peak that, during better weather and in daylight, afforded a panoramic view through the mountains and valleys. Wordlessly, the two drivers got out and started work. It took 10 minutes; there was no other traffic. They started the front car and retreated to the shelter of the rear one while Calum manipulated the remote controls of Tariq's device. The vehicle in front gathered speed rapidly as it headed down-hill with its carefully selected, small, unidentifiable contents. It managed to negotiate the first curve but not the next: plunging through the barrier it soared into mid air and seemed to hang there for an eternal moment before crashing to earth and tumbling over once, twice. Just after the initial impact Dimitri pressed a button on the small black box he held. The response was instant. The battered remnants of Harry's car disappeared in a spectacular fireball that burned fiercely for 15 minutes, despite the rain (_quality accelerant_, Dimitri thought approvingly); still no other vehicles came past. Although the entirely genuine Road Closed signs at either end of the pass may have had something to do with that… Finally, as the flames died down to leave little but a twisted mass of metal in among some scorched trees, the second car started up and slowly drove away. Job done, Dimitri Levendis and Calum Reid returned to London. It had been a very long day.

The wreck wasn't discovered for six weeks. There was almost nothing left of the bodies, or nothing identifiable, the fire had been so fierce. The announcement was extremely low key, the funeral very quiet. They were buried together. Malcolm sent an email, for which he received a response from Mexico a couple of weeks later. Dimitri, Calum and Erin quietly allowed the news to leak into the wider intelligence community and beyond. The ripples spread around the globe, like so many rustling whispers.


	8. Chapter 8

**8.** **Two weeks later. Mid June, 2011. Vladikavkaz, North Ossetia.**

He was glad to finally be here. It had taken him four flights, _via _Berlin, Moscow and Rostov-on-Don, and a couple of days but he was, at last, at his destination. From the small, neat but slightly careworn airport at Beslan the taxi had taken him into that town from where he had caught the local train for the 20km trip to Vladikavkaz. He could have got the taxi to take him all the way but his old training still held true: he would not reveal to anyone, even a taxi driver, where he was staying, not if he could avoid it. On the trip to the old-fashioned, red-brick train station they had passed, in the scrappy countryside, a large cemetery where a quadrant backing onto the road featured row upon endless row of neat, polished red granite tombs with what appeared to be tables and benches of the same material set out on equally tidy pale grey footings, strips of bright green lawn between the back-to-back stones the only other colour. He didn't really think about it as they passed, his mind being focussed elsewhere, but a little later, on the old Soviet-era train heading to the larger city, he noticed, off to the left, the battered wreck of a large, utilitarian building that had an unusual, circular, skeletal structure surrounding something else he couldn't quite make out in the centre of the courtyard. It looked like a school or something similar and was pock-marked with bullet holes. With that thought, he suddenly truly realised where he was and felt a chill dread pass through him. He was passing through _Beslan._ The ruined buildings were indeed a school and the red granite headstones were those of the hundreds of victims of that horrifying siege that had transfixed the world for so many days. He had been spending one of his periodic times in the hell-hole of Butyrka, on his own, at the time but the news had swept through the prison like wildfire and set off a series of battles between those prisoners who represented the more extreme Chechen and Ingush Islamist separatists and their leader, Shamil Basayev, their supporters and the rest of the prison population, including moderate Muslims appalled at the acts tarring their religion and Orthodox Christian political detainees. He himself had managed to stay out of it by dint of keeping his head down and his mouth shut. And now, seven years later, here he was. He would never have thought that would happen. But then, in 2004, he wouldn't have though that much of what had followed over those years would have happened, either.

It had been raining the day he arrived and was late in the afternoon so the towns and country-side had looked dispiritingly grey, dripping and Soviet, with dull light, tatty buildings, muddy verges with sodden grass and no view of the mountains that he knew were out there to the south. This morning, though, he had awoken, in the equally Soviet-era Hotel Vladikavkaz, to breathtakingly beautiful weather and views. Inside, his accommodation still showed every bit of its Intourist heritage, with tiny rooms and everything with a slightly down-at-heel atmosphere, despite a reasonably recent refurbishment, but it was cheap enough, clean, right on the Terek River and a five minute walk from the Prospekt Mira and the centre of town. Its biggest draw-back was being directly adjacent to an ornate Sunni mosque but he had been so tired that, if there had been a call to prayer that morning, he hadn't heard it. The strangest thing of all was that he felt perfectly at home. Even hearing the language again felt comfortable in a way that he wasn't sure it should have. Sadly, it seemed he was far more comfortable here than he had felt in his real home for some time.

Dinner had been reasonably good and he had retired to his room early, weary after weeks of drifting from one end of Europe to the other. A couple of unsolicited phone calls from ladies with sultry voices had interrupted his attempts at slumber so he had pulled the phone out of the wall, ensured the door was locked and fell into a dreamless sleep, not having a chance to wonder what was going to happen the next day. He had always trusted Hamet, and _vice versa_, so it didn't occur to him to worry. After an uninspiring but solid breakfast he had gone outside for a walk and had stopped, in stunned amazement, at the vista that was presented to the south. The Caucasus Mountains towered, in blue and white, breathtaking, saw-toothed majesty, along the entire horizon only a few kilometres away, their snow-capped peaks glinting like diamonds in the chill, clear, early-morning air, flanks clad in the green velvet of thick forest and looking almost close enough to reach out and touch. Both air and view were invigorating so, eschewing the _marshrutni, _the official route taxis, as well as the _chastniki_, the local private taxis, as a means of sight-seeing the man continued his walk, heading south past the mosque and along the river bank towards what appeared to be a reasonably new park. Once there, the green embankment rose high on his right, planted with colourful geometric flower beds, and he spent some time wandering its length and breadth, taking in the gardens, the views from the domed bandstand towards the eastern bank of the Terek, the monumental statue of the great Second World War Cavalry General Issa Pliev on his horse towering above the bridge over the river, and examining the other statues and gardens in the continuation of the park to the south of the bridge.

After indulging in some people-watching he returned to the bridge, a spectacular, wrought iron effort with gilded leopards (or were they lionesses? He wasn't entirely sure) standing guard at each end, with the intention of making for the meeting point but on the way spent some time leaning on the bridge railings, gazing down at the shallow, swiftly flowing, grey river water that had rushed down from the mountains and was busily on its cold way to the Caspian Sea by way of Ingushetia, Chechnya and Dagestan, leaving braided river channels of coarse gravel and cobbles masquerading as islands in the middle of the stream here in the city at the foot of the mountains of its birth. There was a weir immediately north of the main bridge over which the water rushed, non-stop, creating a soothing white noise and beyond it he could see his hotel on the left bank and his destination on the right. By this stage it was mid-morning and time to head towards Prospekt Mira and the Khetagurov Park, where Hamet's representative was due to meet him. It wasn't far so he continued to stroll, following the river bank where he could continue to enjoy the gardens, trees, views across the river to where he had just been, as well as the river itself, while also making sure he wasn't being followed. Old habits again died hard but in these surroundings that wasn't necessarily a bad thing. The entire region's appalling reputation for violence was not undeserved, he was well aware of that.

It was ten o'clock by the time he reached Khetagurov Park which left him half an hour to scope the place out. It was pretty and peaceful, with groves of trees, gardens and lawns surrounding its large water features. Several groups of young people or mothers with small children were scattered throughout the area, the delighted squeals of the latter marking their progress through the attractions. He quartered the area quickly and efficiently and was unable to spot anything apparently out of place so, with a few minutes to go, he stopped off to buy a pastry and a coffee at the open air café and then made his way to the meeting place, a bench overlooking the central pond, where he rolled his sleeves up to his elbows as directed and made short work of polishing off the pastry while continuing to people-watch. A slight young girl with strawberry blonde hair who looked faintly familiar walked past on the other side of the pond but she kept going without even casting a sideways glance so he kept drinking his coffee and scanning the passing parade, such as it was.

From the trees to the south of the water a pair of greenish eyes watched the man drinking his coffee for a few minutes. They had been watching him for longer than that, actually, following him as he had checked out the area, walking in long, loping strides, his tension almost palpable. Tall, over six foot, dark hair sprinkled with silver strands and receding slightly at the temples, he was lean and sinewy, hawk-faced with a grim expression and she guessed that, although they were shaded by sunglasses, his eyes missed nothing. A hard man, then, one to be approached with extreme caution…

The man in question had just about finished his drink and was checking his watch – his contact was behind time – when an almost soundless footfall behind him made him start but it was too late to move as the cold metal of a gun barrel was pressed to the back of his neck. He stilled instantly and waited, staring straight ahead through the trees to the water. Suddenly there was no-one around but he doubted that he, as a foreigner, would get much help even if he did raise his voice. So instead he waited. It helped that he didn't care any more. With nothing left to live for, having finally, comprehensively destroyed absolutely anything that was remotely good about his past existence, it really didn't matter whether this was his escort to his old friend or whether it was a random attack that would end in his death. He could feel eyes raking over him and then fingers pulling the collar of his shirt back, briefly. What the person saw seemed satisfactory and the pressure of the gun barrel eased just a little.

"Jonah West."

It was a statement, not a question, and the voice was female. A reasonably young female. The girl he had spotted before? Definitely his escort, whomever she was. No-one else in this part of the world knew that name.

"It seems you have the advantage." His Russian was perfect, without the slightest trace of the foreign accent that she had half expected, despite what her father had told her. Glancing over him, she saw what she was looking for. It was definitely him. Slipping the safety catch back on she surreptitiously reholstered the weapon and replied,

"Larissa. Give me sixty seconds and then meet me at the entry directly behind us on Prospekt Mira. My father's car will pick us up." She turned and left without another word. The man gave her ten seconds before he, too, turned in his seat to look after her. It was the girl. Medium height, slender, long hair pulled back into a ponytail, there was something of her father's grace in her movements and something of his determination in her voice. He allowed her the requested time before following, just as a black Lexus glided to a halt in front of Larissa Fasli. Turning to check whether he was there, West got the first view of her face: greenish eyes with a faintly eastern cast, high cheekbones, full lips, she was definitely a chip off the old block. He remembered now that she was also a little older than she looked – in her mid twenties – and, like her parents, a fully qualified engineer, in her case in I.T. Opening the rear door closest to her she gestured to him to get inside and moved around to the other side to do so herself. They were almost out of town before she spoke again.

"My apologies, Mr West. I had to get close enough to make sure it was you. My father is very particular about our security, as I'm sure you understand."

"I understand perfectly, Miss Fasli. This is a – challenging – part of the world in which to live." She couldn't see the glint of ironic humour in the grey-blue eyes still hidden behind dark glasses but she heard it in his voice and finally turned towards him, a quick smile of her own briefly lightening the serious expression. She was beautiful, he realised, but also untouchable, even if he was interested. Which he wasn't. He was almost old enough to be her father and bad news all around so he wouldn't even think about inflicting his appalling luck on her. There was a reason why he had called himself Jonah, after all. And there was no way he would cross Hamet. No-one did that and lived to tell the tale.

Despite not being able to see his eyes she could pick up from his general expression that he was tired, and perhaps a little bit desperate. Her father had said little about Jonah West, apart from saying they had met in Moscow, many years ago, and kept in intermittent touch ever since. 'Met in Moscow' was shorthand for met in prison, she knew that, but nothing else apart from one other fact. The man was English. That in itself wasn't unusual – as his _protégée_, she knew that the majority of her father's business associates were foreign and a surprising amount of those were from the West – but having a friend whom he had met in _prison_ in Moscow who was from the West most certainly was and that made him intriguing. And now here he was, out of the blue, tired and apparently looking for help. She doubted that he was here for a holiday, no matter how spectacular the scenery. As though reading her mind West said,

"Your country is very beautiful, though, Miss Fasli."

"Larissa, please, and yes, it is. Physically, at least. Perhaps not so much politically." She began to point out the local landmarks as they drove west, back across the Terek and through a large roundabout with yet another monumental memorial, this time a tall column, marking their departure from the dismal suburbs of Vladikavkaz. Green fields with occasional industrial complexes were on either side of the road for the five kilometres to the smaller town of Gizel', which was marked by yet another monumental memorial to another World War Two battle on the southern side of the road. They had barely touched on the outskirts of town when they turned off to the south, towards the mountains, and rapidly left it behind again. Jonah thought he had spotted cattle on one of the side streets as then entered; he definitely saw more cattle, comfortably seated on the unsealed side of the road, chewing their cud, as they left.

High up on the eastern side of the road towered a further monument, blinding white against equally blinding green in the bright sunshine and overlooking the even smaller town of Verkhnyaya Saniba on the far banks of the tumbling grey waters of another braided river that they were following on the western side of the road. They continued to climb upwards for a little way before eventually turning off the road to the east, onto a gravelled track that was in a small, sheltered valley well up in the foothills. The mountains were a huge, looming presence and the forests cloaked everything in a whispering silence under the wide blueness of the sky. Hamet's home was something of a fortress from the outside: tall, blank concrete walls twice the height of a tall man, topped in electrified razor wire and bristling with security cameras greeted the car on its arrival. The compound walls stretched over one hundred metres either side of the impressive, equally blank steel gates and the trees on either side of the walls had been cleared to remove any possibility of access by that means. The man didn't have the opportunity to see any more as the massive gates silently opened just wide enough to let the vehicle through and immediately slid closed behind them.

The contrast between outside and inside the compound was stark and immediate. Austere, silent, raw green and grey outside gave way to an almost subtropical lushness inside, with a wide variety of plants and a riotous mix of colours from the packed flower beds as the car crunched along the gravelled driveway towards a multi-storey house that would have looked more at home in parts of the Middle East or India than it did here. Square, solid with crenellated towers on each corner and wide verandas enclosed in swirling, decorative lattice, lead-light windows added splashes of design as did ornate iron highlights and geometric patterns in the brickwork. Glimpses of a couple of satellite dishes and a huge array of solar panels could be seen on the roof and, beyond the house, a large building that was probably a hangar, judging by the windsock and helicopter pad in front of it. West could hear peacocks screaming somewhere in the undergrowth as the car stopped and they got out. He didn't look around for the birds, though, because the front door opened and Hamet stepped out.

He hadn't changed. It had been almost six years since they had actually seen each other in the flesh but it might as well have been yesterday. Half a head shorter and almost twenty years older than his visitor, Fasli was lean and lithe and clearly the progenitor of his daughter's looks, although his were more extreme: greener eyes, higher cheekbones, softer mouth and redder, chestnut hair, his looks and the fluidity of his movements pointed firmly to his more exotic ancestors. Although born in Grozny to a Chechen mother from one of the more powerful warlord families in Shatoy, his father was a Volga Tatar from Ufa in the Urals and Hamet had grown up in that city from the age of three, when his parents, both workers for the railways, had been sent back there in the early 1950's. Hamet had joined the Soviet Army at eighteen, training as an armaments engineer, which was where he had met his wife, Galina, a scientist from Arkhangelsk working on weapons research and development. After a long stint in Afghanistan, mostly working alongside the Soviet special services, and with the collapse of the Soviet Union, the Faslis had returned to the Caucasus but not Chechnya: even at that stage they could see the writing on the wall for the Islamic member states of the former Soviet Central Asia and, despite his being nominally Muslim, had chosen instead to live in the dominantly Orthodox Christian North Ossetia instead. And it was from there, in that fertile ground of ethnic tensions and hatred, that Hamet had forged his new, ridiculously successful, career as an arms supplier and general fixer for anyone who wanted his services. The new Russian government had not been impressed and as a result he had spent several stretches in Lefortovo and Butyrka, which was where Jonah had met him. Instant friends, they had managed to stay in touch during the difficult years afterwards and now here they were again, ready to catch up on old times and, hopefully, do something about the immediate future for the Englishman.

"Jonah West, my old friend! Welcome to North Ossetia!" West could feel the first genuine smile for weeks – no, months – stretching his lips and tears suddenly filmed his eyes as they approached each other for a bear hug. There was only one other man in the world he had trusted more than Hamet, and he had let him down, completely and comprehensively, so now he would do whatever was required to not do the same to this man, with whom he had been through so much.

Galina had walked out after her husband and was now standing with Larissa behind the two men, waiting to be introduced. Slightly taller than her husband, blonde haired with somewhat sharp features, she had a gracious smile and a musical voice when they were introduced but it was her blue eyes that gave the visitor a sudden sense of _déjà vu_. Wide, liquid, of a particular lighter shade of blue, he fought down the memories of the last time he had been looking into an almost identical pair of eyes and what he had done at the time. Part of that shameful episode months ago when his previous life had spectacularly self-immolated. That episode which, like the earlier one from almost two decades before, he had now locked away as the only way of coping with the memories. She noted the reaction but didn't comment on it: like her husband, she was curious about what had happened to cause this man to turn up on their doorstep like he had, knowing what they did about him, but no doubt it would all come out some time over the next day or so.

The group moved inside and Larissa disappeared to her office, leaving her parents and their visitor to move off to morning tea on one of the wide verandas surrounding the inner courtyard. It was pleasantly warm in the courtyard, with more of the Moorish feel to the garden and tinkling fountain, and the trio settled down to coffee and spice cake, and talk. Catching up on general gossip took them through until lunch; afterwards, Galina left the men to it, returning to her research, and their talk became more specific. Jonah was extremely uncomfortable but knew he owed it to Hamet to tell the truth of the past few years so, through gritted teeth, he told him all, including a brief summary of the revelation of a particular truth which had ultimately landed him here in North Ossetia. He had wondered how Fasli would take that revelation but, to his relief, it was shrugged off as not important: in the world in which his friend now moved, the story, or versions of it, was common enough. Identities were fluid: it was a person's reputation which counted the most.

Late-afternoon saw them walking the grounds down to a large ornamental pond from which they could also enjoy the view through the valleys and trees to the plain and towns beyond. By the time they returned to the house the shadows were lengthening in the golden light of early evening and an agreement had been reached. Hamet had a couple of contracts coming up, running Russian-manufactured arms out of Sochi to a couple of the rebel groups in North Africa and he needed someone whom he could trust at the Mediterranean end to supervise the final deliveries. He would pay well if Jonah was interested. Jonah was interested. It would give him something to do and top up his bank account enough to seriously consider how to, finally, disappear forever. All he had to do was not get caught but he'd just spent four months hiding from some of the most thorough searchers on the planet so he wasn't worried by that prospect. The evening passed convivially; he tried to insist on returning to his hotel, knowing that foreigners were not supposed to travel outside of Vladikavkaz/Beslan, but Fasli waved his concern away, assuring his guest that he had more than enough influence in his country to overcome any such slight irregularities, so he stayed the night, finally departing the next morning at about the time that he had arrived the previous day. Larissa was escorting him again, for safety's sake; just before he was about to join her in the back of the Lexus Hamet pulled him in to a farewell bear-hug and murmured in his ear,

"It was good to see you again, Lucas."


	9. Chapter 9

**9.** **Three weeks later – Early July, 2011. Gibraltar.**

It was a beautiful evening as the couple made their way up from the marina into town, looking for dinner. Both of middle years, he older than she but both fit, tanned and relaxed, they walked slowly, hand in hand, enjoying the soft air and the wind rustling in the palms as it bent around the monumental limestone Rock that towered over the town. He was half a head taller than she, fair haired and dark eyed to her blue eyed, brunette loveliness, with a good set of shoulders and carrying himself with a competence that would have told anyone watching that here was a man not to be tangled with. She appeared quiet and almost innocent but that was deceptive: her eyes revealed the truth, particularly whenever they turned into lasers to burn straight through any pretext of a façade and wither the brain of anyone she might have caught watching too intently. Fortunately, no-one was watching that night. And no-one had been watching for four weeks now.

_The freedom was intoxicating_, Harry thought as they strolled up the cobbled roads towards one of their favourite eating places. He'd forgotten what it was like to be a totally anonymous, free citizen of the world, responsible for nothing but themselves and able to relax completely without having to keep one eye out for trouble (although that habit was proving unbreakable for them both). Come to think of it, it was something he hadn't been able to do since his days before joining the army almost 40 years ago…

He glanced at Ruth, half-shadowed in the evening light. The change in her over the past weeks had been remarkable: not just the external transformation from somewhat London bohemian with long hair and even longer skirts to Paris chic in jeans and with a _gamine _pixie-cut, also gone was the tense, unhappy, prickly woman, replaced by the carefree spirit that he'd first fallen in love with almost a decade before. And now he knew the passionate soul that drove the spirit. As they stopped to wait for a couple of cars to pass he impulsively kissed her. She twined her arms up and around his neck, running her fingers through his blond curls and, when they came up for air, murmured, barely lifting her mouth from his,

"What was that for?"

He moved his lips over her cheek to nuzzle her neck, his short, neatly trimmed beard tickling her soft skin.

"Because I can!"

She gave a throaty chuckle.

"That's alright, then!"

After five weeks she was still delighted to be with this man day in, day out. Away from their previous setting he had completely dropped the official persona and become the sensual man with the whimsical sense of humour that she'd known was there from the start. Without the stress of the job he looked and acted ten years younger – although she still wasn't sure about the beard – and had been full of little, unexpected surprises in addition to being the best lover she'd ever had. George had been good – thoughtful, considerate, caring – and Ronan, her share-trader former live-in boyfriend while she had been at GCHQ had also had his moments but with Harry there was something else, something more, that, despite the occasional age-induced failure (a factor he was extremely adept at overcoming) took their physical relationship to places she had not even imagined existed. Perhaps it was only their shared past, the one she could never have admitted to, let alone been able to discuss, with the other men, or maybe it was that depth of feeling, the possibility of being overwhelmed that she had never felt for anyone before, but whatever it was she regretted that she hadn't allowed them to discover it at that first opportunity, all those years before… That thought made her kiss him back before pulling away and continuing,

"Enough of this for now – I'm starving! Come on, we're nearly there."

She took his hand and dragged him across Linewall Road, heading for the rabbit-warren of small, ever-steepening lanes and alleyways clinging to the base of the hill that constituted the city centre. Ducking through the lanes and across Main Street, Ruth reflected yet again on how funny she found this place: so very British in appearance – they could have been on a high street anywhere – and yet so very Spanish in feel. Cobble-stone streets with palm trees and soft breezes; cars with British number plates that were driven on the right hand side of the road; locals who were vehement that they were English and yet spoke the language with a Spanish accent and used that language probably more often than English; Bobbies and Barbary Apes… The list of startling incongruities just went on and on.

They'd been here for almost a week now, staying quietly in one of the cheaper rooms at the Queen's Hotel. Once off the barge in France they'd holed up for a couple of days in Saint-Omer to think about what was going to happen next. Harry hadn't wanted to go anywhere near Germany or the old Eastern Bloc countries ever again; following the events of those few weeks with the Gavriks Ruth entirely agreed but, due to her own history, didn't want to repeat her previous steps so anywhere east of Italy was also out; they considered Scandinavia and made it as far as Silkeborg in Denmark before a sudden cold snap sent them south-west, back along the Atlantic coast of France into northern Spain and continuing on through Portugal, back into Spain and finally washing up in the tiny British colony. At a bit of a loss as to where to go next, they'd reluctantly started checking airline schedules – neither particularly wanted to head straight to their ultimate destination as they didn't want to make it too easy for anyone to find them – when Harry got into a conversation one evening with a couple of people aboard an 82' Oyster yacht moored at the marina. The yacht was due to leave at the end of the week to be delivered to her new owners in the Caribbean and they were looking for extra crew for the passage. It took a few minutes before Ruth realised Harry had begun one of his charm offensives and she watched, with mounting horror, as it had its inevitable effect: before she could object, they _were_ the extra crew.

Later that evening, after a convivial meal with the skipper and their new crew-mates, Ruth had murmured in his ear after they went to bed,

"Laurence, can you actually sail?"

He looked totally surprised.

"Yes."

"At _sea_? On something that size?" He grinned at her incredulity

"Yes. My father had a small yacht so I've been sailing since I was a kid, including some Atlantic races when I was in the Army. I just haven't had much of a chance to do any since I took on my last job. Why?"

"I can't!"

He gave a somewhat evil chuckle and dragged her over to lie on his chest.

"You'll learn, Fruit!"

He'd taken her out on a small hire yacht the next day and, despite the blustery conditions, she had picked up the basics fairly quickly. The following couple of days had been spent in organising visas, wet weather gear and helping to ready the boat; that morning they'd stowed their gear aboard in their surprisingly luxurious cabin and tonight was their last evening ashore, as they were due to leave very early on the morning tide.

Seated at their favourite little restaurant and outside at their favourite table, meal over and enjoying a final drink while admiring the view, Harry reached for her hand and laced his fingers through hers.

"Well, Iona, who would have thought, a few months ago, we'd be sitting here tonight, getting ready to cross the Atlantic in a luxury yacht…"

"Not me. To be honest, a few months ago I had no idea of whether we'd even see each other ever again, let alone manage to get ourselves together."

They both fell quiet after that, remembering the mess of Albany, Lucas, the Enquiry, Clan Gavrik and their lives in general.

_By the time Harry had returned to the Grid late on the afternoon of that final meeting with Lucas Ruth had composed herself enough to greet him calmly but the longed-for debrief and opportunity to talk had never happened. They had just started the former when a phone call had seen Harry send them all home while he himself went off to the first of many meetings with the Home Secretary and the Director General and they'd hardly seen him for the following two days. Then he was gone, unreachable, and they had all had to carry on as though nothing had happened. _

_Later, during his gardening leave, there had been occasional opportunities to talk but anything relating to work or the Enquiry had been strictly off-limits as he was being blatantly shadowed and listened to wherever he went. No-one could stop them thinking, inside the sanctity of their own homes, though. That had led Harry to actually stop and consider Ruth's value to the Service, quite separately from her value to him, personally, leading to quite a few hours spent hacking into the MI5 database (he wasn't entirely the technological luddite that he made himself out to be – he had been one of the Service's earliest and most enthusiastic adopters of the new technology back in the eighties and had maintained a quiet interest which was what had led to his initial friendship with Malcolm – and he had that man on call to assist) and the dossier he had eventually handed over to the witch-hunt. Ruth knew his value to the Service, as did everyone else, so she ended up concentrating on his value to her and their entire history, and results were both elucidating and rather depressing. In short, he meant everything to her but, for whatever reason, she had generally acted either stupidly or appallingly. Stupid, early on, to let what she __**thought **__other people would think get in their way; appalling, later on, because she had blamed him, if only subconsciously, for her exile, the way she had been ripped out of it and, most of all, for the death of George and the semi-destruction of Nico. She had blamed him because she couldn't face blaming herself and she knew he both would, and could, take it. So she had vowed to change, and had, for a few weeks – she had even apologised to him for the unacceptable behaviour; he had accepted and made his own apology for being so necessarily opaque and unnecessarily inhibited – before the nightmare that was Elena Platonovna Gavrik had re-emerged from the chill mists of the distant past and, with her masterful manipulations, came within a whisker of destroying them all. _

"Iona" Harry's quiet voice brought her back to the present with a thump. She looked over from her contemplation of the view and saw that his eyes were burning like lamps in the evening light. It was an odd expression and a small frown creased her forehead.

"Mmm?"

"There's something I need to tell you. About Lucas." She remained silent but she couldn't stop her heart beating more quickly. "He's not dead. You realised that, didn't you?"

She closed her eyes briefly as the news hit home. _Christ! No, she hadn't, although the suspicion had been there. What did that mean? Nothing for them, surely?_ She opened her eyes again and asked,

"No. No, I didn't although I thought it may have been a possibility... You said he'd gone off the top of the building."

He shook his head, slowly.

"No. What I actually said was that I heard a car alarm go off and someone scream, then turned around to find myself alone on the roof. What I didn't get the chance to tell any of you was that when I looked over the edge there was nothing. No damage anywhere, no body. I did a circuit of the building when I went back downstairs: still nothing."

Gazing at him, eyes luminous, she realised that they had never actually discussed what had happened with the man they had known as Lucas North. Even late that afternoon, when Harry had returned to the Grid, all he had said in response to their unspoken question was that Lucas was gone, that he had been waiting for the bullet that never came, had heard the car alarm and the scream and turned around to find himself alone. Then had came the phone call and after that the subject was never raised again – off limits during his gardening leave and then lost in the even bigger disaster that was Elena Gavrik and RussiaFirst. She assumed it had been mentioned during the Enquiry but she hadn't been there for most of it – due to the extremely sensitive nature of the security issues raised over its course it had been held in closed session until the final days of summing up – so she must have missed it. It was her turn to shake her head.

"Shouldn't there have been a search of the building?"

Harry scrubbed his face and suddenly looked tired.

"There was no time to get anyone else in so I did it. No trace. Presumably he beat me out of the building or slipped out of one exit while I was at another when I was checking the ground – there was no CCTV working in that building at the time and he managed to avoid being picked up on anything else in the area. That's why I was so late getting back that day. I was looking for him on the ground then and, later that night and over the following days, electronically. I'm sorry I didn't tell anyone – it came out during the Enquiry but I didn't have time beforehand and we all know what happened afterwards. It all faded into the background after that, with the loss of Jim and the others, and I deliberately didn't bring the subject up. You remember that phone call from the DG during the debrief just before I sent you all home? That was an order to not discuss anything with anybody pending the full debriefing, which never happened because it turned into the Enquiry instead. Afterwards, it all seemed too late and I was – distracted, as you know. Plus it was unlikely he was still in the country and was on Interpol's list as well as a few others, so was no longer our problem."

Ruth reached out and took both of his hands in hers. She hated seeing him so weary, always had, but it seemed so unfair now that they had left it all behind and, particularly, as she grasped the confessional nature of what he had been saying. He had deliberately delayed following up on Lucas _so that he could get away_… He had always been an armour-plated warrior with the heart of a marshmallow so it was no real surprise that he had acted as he had.

"Come on, sweet, all that's over for us now. Wherever he's gone it's not our issue any more." She leaned over and kissed him. "Whatever else happened in those last few days there's one thing I've got to thank Lucas for – he made me wake up to myself." She saw the question in his eyes and went on, "Just before he left—"

"Left you to die." The one thing for which he would never forgive the younger man.

"Left me _unconscious_, he told me I was the same as he was, that we'd done enough. And that it was time to be brave enough to be selfish for once and go for what I really wanted." She took a deep, wavering breath as she was suddenly back there. "Then he injected me with a dose of anaesthetic and wouldn't let me go until I was nearly out to it, all the while telling me he was sorry and not to fight it… Next thing I know, you're there. As always. Pulling my rear-end out of the fire."

He gave a short laugh.

"Hardly. I shouldn't have dropped your rear-end into that fire in the first place. Very nice rear though it is—"

She snorted gently and stuck her tongue out at him.

"Not as nice as yours! _Anyway_, once all – that – was over and you weren't around to talk to, I was thinking. Hard. About what he'd said. And I didn't like myself much by the finish but it did make me face up to a few things and decide what I really wanted for my life, even though it was side-tracked for a while by the Gavriks. You were what I wanted. You and a life of our own, away from the Grid, in our little hermitage in Suffolk." She suddenly smiled that luminous smile at him. "At least I got you. The hermitage might have to be somewhere else, though."

Whatever he'd said, it looked like he owed Lucas some thanks for it, although not for the residual distress that was on her face after remembering her final meeting with the man and what he had done. Shuffling his chair closer he managed to wrap her in his arms, kissed her forehead and sighed.

"Sorry, Fruit, I've broken our promise of not looking back. Must be the effect of leaving this part of the world for the last time. It won't happen again."

She grinned at him.

"Yes it will. We wouldn't be human if it didn't. Let's not worry about it, huh?" She ran her fingers through his curls, longer now than she had ever seen them. "It's a beautiful night, Laurence. And our last few hours on dry land for a couple of weeks! Let's forget about the past again and focus on that instead." Leaning over, she kissed him again and then stood up, hauling him to his feet in the process. "Come on, let's go for a walk while we can."

"You'll be able to walk on the boat," he objected faintly as they headed back down the hill.

"Yes, for eighty feet at a time!"

"Could be worse, you could be on a twenty-footer," he pointed out reasonably but she wasn't having it.

"Hmmph!" She dropped her hand to rest on his behind. "You _do_ have a good bottom, you know. It was one of the first things I noticed!"

He looked down at her, one eyebrow raised.

"Are you now admitting that you were perving on your new boss?"

"Absolutely!" she grinned back, unabashed. "There's nothing like a good bit of well-cut Savile Row to bring out the best in a chap. Just as well you never wore these—" she tugged at his shorts "—on the Grid, though, otherwise I would never have got any work done with those shapely legs on display."

He shook his head.

"You are shameless, woman, utterly shameless…"


	10. Chapter 10

**10. Five weeks later. Mid-August 2011. Libya/Marseille.**

All was quiet aboard the small boat as it manoeuvred its way towards the faint phosphorescence of the shoreline. A rigid inflatable of the sort used for off-shore rescues, its powerful engines were throttled almost back to idle and its skipper, a former US Navy Seal by the name of Randy Thornton, expertly steered it through the low swell and cresting waves towards the tiny beach nestled between low, rocky headlands. The other two men aboard, in charge of ensuring the delivery was made to the client, were Etienne Schnetler, a South African mercenary who had spent the last fifteen years working around the world for Aegis Defence Services and Sandline International, and Jonah West, formerly known as Lucas North or his real name, John Bateman. They had been working together for Hamet Fasli for six weeks now, had made five similar runs before this one and were now a well-oiled, and well-paid, machine. Their journeys had all started from separate points stretching between Marseille in the west to Istanbul in the east but all had ended somewhere similar to this: an unidentified, lonely stretch of the coastline somewhere east of Tripoli, in this case close enough to Misrata to just see the lights of that city but not so close to be at risk of casual observation by strangers. Their mother-ship, masquerading as a fishing vessel, was twenty nautical miles out, over the horizon, waiting quietly and unlit for their return; the correct signals had been received from the shore and now they were about to go ashore and deliver the cases of Kalashnikovs, mortars and ammunition to the buyers.

The engine suddenly accelerated for a moment as the water beneath them surged and they rode the wave onto the sand, Thornton killing the engine just as the keel grated and both Schnetler and Lucas leapt out onto the wet strand, pulling the boat further up out of the swash zone. As Thornton joined them, a dim figure appeared on the skyline, faint against the stars, then another and another. The pick-up crew, as arranged, swathed in traditional dress and hung with grenades and rifles. Lucas fingered his own weapon, a handy little Glock, and felt the adrenaline surge, but there was no pleasure in it, he just wanted the job over and to head back to their base for this trip – only a short journey this time, to Malta – and then on to Marseille for a break before picking up their next shipment, the last for the moment, which was due to depart that port in a couple of weeks for Tunisia and on-shipping to Libya. A dull whump and faint glow of light from further west distracted everyone for a moment: the uprising in Tripoli was well and truly under way, with heavy fighting spreading throughout the centre of the city, but out here it was all quiet, just a few men delivering contraband on a deserted beach.

They had dealt with this trio thrice before, and Lucas greeted the leader cordially, accepting the remaining cash and examining it while the other man did a thorough check of a couple of randomly selected boxes of goods. Satisfied all was in order, he returned to the boat to dump the money and was about to take his place to push them off shore again when something made him turn. The three clients were still there, preparing to call in their Toyota Hilux to load up, and the leader and one of his men were staring up the low track that it would appear from but the third member of the trio had remained with the goods and was staring at Lucas, un-nervingly. The Englishman stared back and realised what had been tickling his antenna ever since the Libyans had appeared: this man was not one of the usual group and he was not Libyan. He was a Westerner. And Lucas had seen him somewhere before, a long time ago.

They continued the silent staring match for a few more moments until the other man smiled abruptly and asked in a voice with a cut-crystal accent,

"Jonah West. Another Englishman abroad in the dead of night in a war zone. I know about your friends Thornton and Schnetler but you I don't. A trusted employee of Hamet Fasli, a Chechen war-lord based in North Ossetia. You are a mystery and yet I feel there is something familiar about you."

His voice brought it all back. This man had been, incredibly, one of his course instructors when he had first joined Five, back in the early 1990's. An expert in bomb making and defusing, he had been on loan to the home service from Six. The last Lucas had heard he was still based at Vauxhall Cross, only in a significantly more senior position… Fingering his long goatee he hoped that it and the long hair would be enough to put the other man off the scent and replied in a defiantly East London accent,

"I don't think so, mate. Wouldn't know you from a bar of soap. Why so nosey?"

The other man smiled again and said in that aristocratic accent that reminded Lucas strongly of Jools Siviter,

"Oh, just curious, old man. I like to know with whom I'm dealing."

"Well, Guv, I don't give a fuck. The deal's done, we have to get going and you're delaying us, so see you next time."

With that he turned away, just as Thornton called,

"Come on, buddy, lets get the hell out of here," joined Schnetler in pushing the boat out and jumped aboard as the American gunned the engine in reverse, swung the tiller and pushed them over the waves and back out to sea. He stared back at the shore, unsettled by the meeting, but the figures had been swallowed into the night. All he could hope was that the man hadn't recognised him.

Ashore, the same man watched the boat disappear beyond the breakers, a slight frown between his brows. There had been something familiar about the blue eyes and the build but he didn't know what. He would have to think about it some more, although it probably didn't matter. The men he had been sent here to help were getting impatient so he jumped into the front passenger's seat of the Hilux and they bumped back up the track, heading for Misrata and to pass the weapons on to those of the rebel forces readying their tug boats for the assault on Tripoli that was due to be launched early tomorrow morning. The true identity of his visitor could wait.

The visitor was back in Marseille the next night, having managed to catch the last flight out of Malta which arrived at 10.30pm local time. Having booked into a reasonable, anonymous chain hotel near the port using his secondary, Chinese-provided false identity of Lloyd Ensham, he fell into bed and a largely dreamless sleep, the product of running on adrenaline for the past week. Never entirely dreamless, though, no matter how hard he tried to exhaust himself: if it wasn't the usual flash-backs to a Russian prison cell it was flash-backs to Dakar or, in some ways the worst of all because it reminded him of what he had thrown away, the Grid. That night it had been the Grid, or off the Grid to be precise: Ruth, fighting him as the anaesthetic took effect; and Harry, on the Enver Tower, the gun at his head, almost ordering Lucas to shoot him, now, as though he was the one who had had enough and wanted to end it all. The disintegration of the only decent part of his life. That left him standing, shaken, wrapped in a sheet, staring out the window of his room at the grey wall of the neighbouring building in the pallid light of dawn. He knew he wouldn't sleep again so he dressed and headed outside to pound the streets for a while before returning, showering, changing and making his way to a small café he had spotted on his run to ruin the healthful effects of exercise with strong coffee and a couple of _pain au chocolat_.

The rest of his break followed much the same pattern. Some days were spent wandering the city and surrounds, one or two, when the weather was bad, were spent holed up in his hotel room watching bad Italian and French television or net-surfing on his tablet and trying to decide what he was going to do with his life. On days like this he wished he had carried out his original plan of ending it all but he hadn't so here he was, drifting, aimless, rudderless, pointless... Maybe _this _was his penance, to act as a modern-day Flying Dutchman of sorts, unable to lay anchor anywhere and doomed to sail the world forever due to the dreadfulness of his crimes. It would only be what he deserved.

On his last night in town he repaired, as usual, to a small bar two streets away. It was something of a dive but the alcohol was varied and cheap and people would leave you alone most of the time. Full of transients from the port, he could people-watch the citizens of most of the four corners of the planet every night without moving from his seat at the gloomy end of the bar. This particular night he was a little later than usual and the place was already fairly full but his usual position – the unpopular end of the room, which was why he chose it – was still mostly empty so he took up his usual seat and the bar-tender plonked his usual down in front of him without even needing to ask.

He was on his second when the feeling of being watched got strong and irritating enough for him to finally shift in his seat and look around but he couldn't spot anyone. There were a couple of local fishermen, regulars, who were at the other end of the bar, wreathed in cigarette smoke and ignoring everyone, two or three loners also concentrating on their drinks and several large groups taking up much of the rest of the room. One of the groups appeared to be Filipino crew off one or more of the container ships and freighters in the port; the others were mixed Westerners from Eastern Europe, Scandinavia, England, the Americas and South Africa, judging by the accents. More seafarers, he suspected the Eastern Europeans of being in the same business as himself, and probably some of the others but he really didn't care. It was the tail end of the Arab Spring and the whole area was jumping with people out to make a quick buck. No-one appeared to be watching, no matter what his sixth sense said, so he went back to his drink.

The feeling returned a few minutes later but he ignored it this time, instead ordering a third drink and imbibing it slowly while his skin continued to crawl. Nature eventually called so he used the opportunity to sweep the room again as he went out but could still see no-one. It was when he returned a few minutes later that he saw her. Petite, dark hair now, not blonde, but the same squarish face with high cheekbones and bubbling blue-grey eyes, she was with another woman, African-American by the accent, and half a dozen men of mixed nationalities. Beth Bailey.

The shock of recognition between the pair was almost palpable. The room turned slowly and the background noise seemed to fade away as Lucas stared at her. Beth, for her part, had been staring at the tall, dark-haired man ever since she had walked into the bar. There was something hauntingly familiar about him but he was facing slightly away from her at the gloomy end of the room and that, combined with the long hair and beard had left her no more the wiser until he had walked back in from the hallway just now, into the full light, and she had seen him face-on. A dead man, walking. Her former boss, Lucas North.

They stared at each other for a long moment; Beth's companion, noticing, leaned over and murmured,

"Someone's got your attention! Why don't you go right on over there and try your luck, honey? We've got 24 hours left."

Beth looked at her, uncomprehending, and glanced back to see Lucas picking up his drink and sculling it. He was un-nerved but knew he didn't have time to get away so instead prepared for—what, exactly? Battle? An interrogation? A jolly reunion? None were likely but, he admitted to himself as she began to walk towards him, he wanted to know why she was here. Specifically, who she was working for. The woman arrived in front of him, eyes accusing.

"This isn't possible. You're supposed to be dead."

"Clearly not."

"You did a swan-dive off the top of the Enver Tower six months ago. How are you _not _dead?" Her voice was as accusatory and unyielding as her eyes and he tried a placating smile.

"Harry never told you?"

"He didn't have a bloody chance with everything that happened straight afterwards! All he said was that he thought you'd gone off the top of the tower. We assumed the fall was fatal."

"No. That was the original intention but I didn't have the guts to carry it out so I ran."

It didn't work. Her expression remained unyielding, unforgiving. Gone, it seemed, was any sign of the bright, bubbly, extremely intelligent and openly slippery private contractor he'd worked with on the _Hanover Star_ and then, later, in Thames House, replaced by someone as hard, or harder, than anyone he had dealt with then or since.

"_Here_? Why? Why not go back to China with your new mates? Or didn't you like your pay-masters when you got to know them?"

The unrelenting pressure and confrontation was getting to him already – he was finding, more and more, that he couldn't stand confrontation at any level any more – so he raised his hands and said,

"Look, Beth, why don't we sit down and discuss this over a drink? What are you having?"

She gave him a measured look while she considered the offer. The shock of realising that it was actually him was wearing off, to be replaced with a cold fury at what he had done combined with a niggling curiosity about what he was doing now and why he was still alive. In any case, there had been so much fall-out since that day he had played them all with his false bomb and the demands that went with it that it might just serve the bastard right to know exactly how heavy the price had been for his actions.

"Tequila."

He ordered the drinks and they sat back at the bar, old colleagues now with almost nothing in common except suspicion. Beth couldn't tear her eyes away from him: always lean, he was gaunt now, the long hair and beard slightly unkempt and the lines etched more deeply on his face made him look years older than he was. It unsettled her but she dismissed the feeling: after all, she reminded herself that she really knew nothing about the man sitting next to her. Lucas North. John Bateman. God knows what he was calling himself now but it didn't matter because none of them were real. She doubted if he knew the truth of who he was himself any more.

In the end it was Lucas who started the conversation, wearily.

"Where do you want to start, Beth?"

She was short and to the point.

"Why are you here?"

He stared down at the zinc top of the bar, tracing patterns with the water left by his glass.

"Something to do that stops me thinking, revisiting the past. For a few moments at a time." The tone of his voice was dull, suggesting he was telling the truth. "What about you?"

She continued to stare at him, so hard he could feel her gaze boring into his skull, but what she said next and the bitterness with which she said it almost took his breath away.

"I have to earn a living somehow. You cost me my job, you bastard."

He lifted his gaze to hers and she could see the surprise and guilt mixing there.

"How? You were no part of what I did."

"No kidding." She took a swig of the tequila and relented, just a fraction. "I wasn't. But Harry was and your actions saw him suspended two days after your little stunt and landed in a full commission of enquiry into his entire bloody career. They were out to crucify him, _John_, and courtesy of you they damned near did, after all he'd done for the State over his life-time. While he was suspended they brought that bitch from hell Erin Watts over from Section A to fill in for him."

"_Erin_?" He'd heard of her on the grapevine after he'd returned: experienced in a couple of other sections, she had been promoted to running A about six months before Vaughan Edwards had reappeared and was reputed to be a hard case, although very efficient and a good people manager, but had little direct experience in counter-terrorism. She seemed an odd choice to replace Harry and he briefly, cynically, wondered whose teacher's pet she was.

"Yes. She hated me on sight: didn't like the competition for Dimitri or the fact that I'm good at my job – better than her and not as hidebound by the rules as she is. I'm more in Harry's mould with a damned sight more field experience than she has and she knew it, knew it was a threat. A couple of weeks after she arrived we became aware of a group who were funnelling drugs into London from Colombia and I was put on the case for obvious reasons. I was three weeks into it when something went wrong – we were grassed up – and the entire operation collapsed. Erin Watts wanted a scapegoat and I was it, despite the fact it was nothing to do with me – she just used it on top of what had happened on that previous operation. We had a huge argument and she decommissioned me on the spot. I suspect I was tainted by association with you, too, so thanks for that. Now, because of your actions, here I am, out of the job I loved and that I'd waited twelve years to get back into and back doing what I was doing before we ever met on that bloody ship. Making money but up to my neck in the filth that I was trying to escape when I re-joined Five."

He shook his head and the crippling guilt overwhelmed him again. So many people had been destroyed or damaged by his actions, from twenty years ago to today, and it was times like this, when he was confronted by yet more of it, that he most regretted not jumping that day. He had taken his eight years in the Russian prison system and his efforts before and after that with Five as at least part-atonement for his actions in Dakar but then he had destroyed all of it when Edwards had turned up, with his usual exquisite timing, just as his shaky grip on reality had started to really slip after Ros' death, activating the self-destruct pattern that had been there since childhood and had been exacerbated by Africa and Russia. Desperate to stop the spin before it got any further he asked, unthinking,

"Are you with the same group?"

"None of your bloody business," she spat and he knew that if looks could kill he would be well and truly dead. Beth had seen the effect of her words on him but didn't care, he'd earned it. And he didn't know the half of it yet.

"Sorry. Sorry." He whispered the response and swallowed more of his vodka.

"Are you? You'll pardon me if I find that a bit hard to believe." The anguish on his face left her unmoved. She was _so_ angry with him. His betrayal of Harry had been a betrayal of all of them and, for Beth, it was personal. He had recruited her, or more correctly got her back into the fold a decade after Harry had (justifiably, she had to admit) dismissed her due to her volatility and immature self-interest and yet again after she had pushed him again with her unorthodox methods and then promptly deceived her. That's what it felt like but the truth was that he had been deceiving her from the first day, of course. "You have no idea how sorry you really should be."

He lifted his gaze from the counter top with a frown on his forehead and apprehension in his eyes.

"What do you mean?"

Her lips quirked into a brief, hard smile.

"Later. If you're lucky. Now, you know what happened to me but why are you here? Not just in this bar but in Marseille. Seems like an odd spot."

"Does it? Nothing seems odd now. I've drifted from one side of Europe to the other and from top to bottom since—well, since I left. Kept on the move until I couldn't stand it any more so looked up an old contact and have been working for him for the past few weeks, ferrying goods to Libya."

She eyed him dubiously, having a quiet bet with herself about the exact nature of those 'goods'.

"What about your Chinese money? I would have assumed they had made you a multi-millionaire for your efforts so why aren't you living the high life in Brazil or somewhere else without an extradition treaty instead of skulking around a third-rate bar in the back streets of Marseille port? And don't try to tell me you sympathise with the cause because I won't believe it."

That stung, badly.

"I won't touch that! It's tainted, blood-money—"

"Oh, so suddenly you've developed _morals_? After what you've done?"

He was about to object when he suddenly realised that she was speaking the truth. He had no right to morals after what he'd done in his life. Throwing back the rest of his drink he signalled for another.

"You can't talk. Mercenaries aren't exactly renowned for their morality."

"No, we're not but we don't pretend that what we're doing has any element of morality to it in the first place! What was it you said on that bloody ship when I first told you who I was? '_You're a profiteer. You exploit death, violence and misery for money.' _ You had it right then about me: it's all about the money and nothing else but don't try to kid yourself that you were doing anything different with Albany! At least we don't masquerade as something we're not to our employers or fellow workers. Just what the hell was all that about, _John_? Keeping your sad little dreams alive, no matter what the cost? That little CIA hacker. Vaughan Edwards. _Maya._ That poor little shit in the hoodie. _My fucking job_. Ruth and Harry. How many more victims were there, you selfish bastard? And all for what? To cover your life-long trail of stuff-ups?" She was hissing viciously at him by now, all the fury of those months of deception coming to the fore. The drink was starting to tell by now – he rarely drank these days, it allowed too many memories to come flooding back, and even when he did it was usually only one or two – so he snapped back,

"Exactly how was I to blame for you losing your job? I was the one who got you back in again in the first place and gave you a second chance against Harry's wishes after your dalliance with your Colombian mates! And you have the hide to talk to me about a life-long trail of stuff-ups—"

At that she exploded in disbelief at his temerity. She'd never pretended to be an innocent but she'd never sunk to his depths.

"Whatever you might think of my work, at least I've never betrayed my country!"

Every shaft she threw at him was hitting home and to fend off the shadows that were rising up and threatening to engulf him he snarled,

"You don't know what you'd do in those circumstances!"

"Not that. _Never that_! I've got more honour in my little finger than you have in your entire body and would never put others in the danger that you did!"

He knew who she was talking about. The subjects of those nightmares he had been having lately.

"Who? Harry and Ruth? They can look after themselves."

"Overpowered and anaesthetised or with a gun to the head? Like you gave either of them a chance! If only you knew the truth of what your actions led to… And don't tell me you've forgotten Maya already? The woman you supposedly loved and ended up killing? You didn't give her much of a choice either, did you?"

"_She wasn't supposed to die! _You can lay that one at Harry's door—"

"_No!" _ she hissed and slammed her glass on the bar. "Don't even suggest it. Your fault, John, completely your fault. Maybe if you'd gone to Harry in the first place, when Vaughan Edwards had first crawled out of his hole, she'd still be alive, so would that poor little shit in the hoodie and the Americans' pet hacker, your old mate would be in prison and neither of us would be sitting in this fucking shit-hole of a bar!" Her venom rocked him back for a minute, but only a minute. Miserable, hurting and too drunk to know better, the shadows closing in on him, he snarled back at her,

"So tell me, just what is the difference between what I did for Maya and what Harry did for Ruth?"

Beth had laughed bitterly, almost but not quite unable to believe his effrontery. How could she have ever admired this man?

"Where do I start? How about that you didn't do anything for Maya, you did it for yourself? Or that Harry was acting to save someone else's life, not his own? Or even better, that at least he acted as he did knowing the bloody thing didn't work and that it was no actual loss? Remember that, _John_: you killed three people, almost killed another two at the time and could be held at least partly responsible for their actual deaths since, and all for something that was a fairy story!"

He knew that but – _what did she just say? _Homing in on the salient part of that he went white.

"_What_? Are you saying Harry and Ruth are _dead_? How do you know?"

Beth glared at him, her blue eyes suddenly full of tears.

"Yes. Dimitri told me – despite the rules we're still in contact. They finally got married – I was there – just after he had resigned his commission. The enquiry into him after your little debacle had turned into a bloody witch-hunt. A witch-hunt facilitated by _your actions_! They brought him back on sufferance to sort out some problem with the Russians but he knew what direction the witch-hunt would go when it re-started afterwards so he jumped before he was pushed, they got married and promptly ended up dead in a car accident on the way to their honeymoon." The tears rolled for a moment as she remembered the conversations with Dimitri, one six weeks ago, telling her that were missing and the other, six days ago, letting her know that what was left of them had finally been found. He'd been trying to contact her for a week but she had been doing her own delivery runs into Tunisia; when he'd finally succeeded she'd cried for three days. "If you hadn't stolen Albany and given it to China there wouldn't have been an enquiry, he wouldn't have had to go and maybe they'd even both still be alive – there's some doubt that it even _was _an accident." _[That had been Dimitri's brainwave, to insinuate, when they started their whisper campaign, that the accident was in fact no accident at all.] _She glared at him, eyes burning. "Remember that next time you're feeling superior. Or sorry for yourself." With that, she walked out without a further word, too furious and disgusted to stay in the same room as him. He hardly noticed that she was gone, so stunned had he been at her revelation. The shadows circled, closed in on him, and he could feel his heart race and his body begin to sweat as his breathing became more ragged. The room turned claustrophobic and he staggered out into the warm night, hardly aware of where he was going or what he was doing. Harry was dead and Beth was right. It was his fault. His actions had given Harry's enemies the opportunity they had been looking for to force him out. And he would guarantee that it hadn't been any accident, either: not content with finally kicking him out into the cold, they had then ensured that he would never come back to either haunt them or expose their skeletons…

Blinded by despair, he who had been Lucas North disappeared into the darkened streets.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: another two chapters, as this one is short. A vote of thanks to all of you for sticking with the twists and turns of the multiple strands of this story and an even larger one to my reviewers, whose efforts I always appreciate. Merry Christmas to one and all!**

**11.** **Four weeks later – mid-September 2011. Australian Security and Intelligence Organisation headquarters. Russell, Canberra, Australia. **

The tap on the door was a welcome interruption to scrolling through endless pages of intelligence summaries on the latest manoeuvring of the various splinter groups of Al-Qaeda in Aceh and beyond, into wider Indonesia and Malaysia with their tentacles extending well into her own domain, among the ever-expanding network of informal prayer halls that were popping up all over the country. That was the problem with these people, thought Ilian Grant, they were like the Hydra, you chopped one head off and another couple grew in its place. Blinking her eyes back into focus the woman behind the desk looked up and called,

"Come in." One of the her analysts – a young man whose grandparents had immigrated from Salerno after the war and who looked like an living copy of the Michaelangelo's David but in reality was rather shy and very sweet, although cheeky – entered the room with a pile of folders in his arms.

"Latest delivery from Assessment. I gather they're most worried about the one on the top." He dumped the pile with a resounding thud on her desk, disturbing a few other papers which fluttered into her lap or onto the floor in quiet protest at being ruffled. "Collection and Analysis have been through that one as well. They all think it might be worth us watching what's going on." She sighed, wondering why none of this lot had come up in the morning meeting. Presumably because none of the other sections gave a toss about letting Counter-Espionage and Interference know anything ahead of delivering the paperwork; as long as they got it off their desks they were happy. Taking her glasses off she carefully rubbed at her temples before delivering a dry,

"Yes, _thank_ you, Salvatore! Remind me to return the favour to them at the earliest opportunity."

He grinned at her, gave a mock salute and escaped before she could lumber him with any of the work. He knew any such reprieve would be short-lived but any opportunity to lessen the workload these days was gratefully accepted. She knew that – that workload was now, courtesy of the ugliness of religious intolerance and the ever growing flood of the displaced, insanely larger than it had been when she'd joined the service almost thirty years ago – and let him go to enjoy his little victory. Checking her watch she realised she still had half an hour before her meeting with the Federal Police so she had time for a quick flick through the pile. Leaving the top one aside she checked the others quickly, efficiently, sorting them into piles to follow up or send back. Most of them would come to nought but it never did to become complacent so everything would be given its due consideration during the course of the day.

Returning to the first file, she absorbed the summary page in a glance. The initial intel had come up _via_ the hotline from a top-end commercial real estate agent's office in Brisbane back in May. A previously unknown Indonesian business had bought a large cattle station called Capricorn Downs at the southern end of Cape York back in May. The hotline had thought it was a big enough financial deal, let alone the slight oddness of the reported conversation, to send it off to the Investigative Analysis section, who had done some more digging before passing it on to Assessment. It had eventually made its way through the three Assistant Directors General of that Department to finally come to squat on her desk now. Flipping through the file she noted that some odd personnel movements had occurred in and around the property, almost from the day settlement had gone through, and some of the snooping that Analysis had done had thrown up some interesting names associated with the Indonesian parent business. She raised her eyebrows a little at the connections: what on earth did Jemaah Ansharut Tauhid, the latest Hydra head to pop up from the weakened body of Al-Qaeda's local representatives, Jemaah Islamiya, want with a cattle station out in the wilds of south-western Cape York? And how on earth had it got past the Foreign Investment Review Board in the first place? They obviously hadn't dug too deeply. Ever since the live export trade to Indonesia had been banned in June there had been a spike in investors from that country looking at large-scale rural properties but no-one had really moved yet, at least in part due to the snail's pace at which the FIRB moved, and anyway it appeared that this purchase had got underway long before the screening of the television show which had resulted in the live cattle export ban. She doubted if they were seriously interested in getting involved in the live cattle export trade. Admittedly, the woman – Agustina Soraya Shinwari – was a very well known business woman but it was in electronics and software development, not farming of any sort and she had no apparent ties to any terrorist organisation. The man was a different issue.

Hamzah Rashid was Malaysian and had definite connections to the live cattle industry but it was as an importer and meat processor, not a beef farmer, although admittedly he and his people had turned the fortunes of Capricorn Downs a full 180 degrees in the short time that they had owned the property. He also had fingers in a lot of other pies – construction, forestry, mining and retail – and had close ties with the Malaysian government and one of the Perak royal families but it was another comment, currently marked as unconfirmed and under investigation, that caught her attention. He was suspected of being a banker for both JAT and Abu Sayyaf, the nasty Islamic separatist group who were considered an arm of both JI and Al-Qaeda and had been terrorising the southern Philippines, as well as parts of both Malaysia and Indonesia, for a couple of decades, their aim to create an Islamic state in the south of that very Christian country. Her antenna for trouble had twitched as soon as she had opened the file and started to buzz when she read that bit: she would definitely do some gentle – or not so gentle – encouragement of the other departments to follow up on that, and might even chase up some of her old contacts at ASIS to see what they could find. Maybe it was all a coincidence but somehow she didn't think so.

Glancing at her watch again she swore under her breath as she realised she was going to be late if she didn't get going now so put the file aside for further consideration later, locked the computer and bolted for the car park, blinking at the bright, bitterly cold winter sunshine.


	12. Chapter 12

**12.** **Two weeks later – late-September 2011. 27°16'27"S, 153°53'34"E. 30 nautical miles off-shore, Moreton Bay, Queensland, Australia.**

The sound of water gurgling steadily along on the other side of the hull, combined with the gentle motion of the boat, told Harry the conditions were going to be good for their arrival. He wasn't expected on deck yet but had woken early, probably due to the knowledge that today was the day they were finally arriving at their new future. It had been fun to be drifting around half the planet for the past four months but sooner or later they knew the drifting was going to have to end and the building of the new life start in earnest. And today was that day.

It was still long before dawn but from what he could see through the porthole above the bunk there was the merest hint of the stars beginning to fade. There was enough light, however, for him to watch Ruth as she slept. She was in a position that she ended up in quite often: curled into his side, her head nestled into the hollow of his shoulder and arm flung across him, her silky, chocolate hair was in disarray, long enough now to be partially covering her face. He longed to brush it away but didn't at this stage because he knew the touch would wake her, so contented himself with gazing at her while his mind went back to the first time they had ended up like this. It wasn't a memory he went back to in any detail very often because of all the corollaries that went with it, but it seemed appropriate on this morning to consider it.

_They had been late getting home on the evening of that surreal, chill day on the Thames Estuary back in Spring. After the initial discussions in the DG's office they had decamped back down to the Grid and Harry's fishbowl, away from the curious ears of the other crews at work on the floor: in the interests of authenticity and safety the decision was taken to contain the truth within their own circle, so they largely hammered out the details of the plan, and even started to action some of them, under the guise of a debriefing._

_Before they knew it the clock was reading 5.30pm. They were having a breather and Harry looked around at them, realising that the younger three appeared to be as exhausted as he felt and that Ruth, sitting next to him with her eyes momentarily closed, looked all-in. Enough was enough: she should have been in hospital, he hadn't slept for thirty six hours and hadn't exactly been treated gently by the Cousins while enjoying their hospitality, and they had all been running on little more than adrenaline for weeks so it was time to go home. They had days yet to get everything in place: easy, especially once he and Towers started calling in a few favours. Oddly, it hadn't occurred to either him or Ruth that they should do anything apart from go home together and Erin hadn't given them an option, pointing out that they were going to need some protection from the likely marauding US and/or Russian agents so it would be easier if they were in one place and that place should be Harry's, as it was significantly more secure than Ruth's flat. Too tired to care about the implications – and in any case they __**were**__ about to get married – they acquiesced without argument. _

_It took another hour to finally shut the front door on the world. Ruth had needed to pick up a change of clothes and toiletries, which necessitated a detour, then there was the final subtle emplacement of their overnight surveillance around the immediate vicinity of the house before they could finally collapse. It was at that point that he had remembered that he had disposed of all of the perishables from his fridge so it took a few minutes of searching the pantry and cupboards to come up with enough ingredients for a scratch meal, which they shared over a bottle of pinot noir that had been hiding in the pantry. The meal was strangely comfortable, as though they had been doing this for years – both suspected, rightly, that almost total exhaustion had seen off any lingering nerves either might have felt in this situation. _

_After the meal, Ruth expressed her desire to clean up so after finishing the job that the paramedics had started (slitting open her bloodstained top so that she could actually get out of it) Harry sent her upstairs while he tidied up the kitchen and did a final round of the house, checking the security, before following her. Her ablutions had clearly been short, as she was settling into bed by the time he walked in the door; smiling sleepily at him she had announced her deduction that the other side was his, judging by the clock and phone charger; he had confirmed her accuracy then checked her dressings, kissed her gently and told her he wouldn't be long in joining her. The nerves had really hit once he was in the shower: here they were, where he had wanted them to be for years, and she was injured and he was so worn out he was almost asleep on his feet. He could only hope that if she wanted more than a loving cuddle when he joined her that his aging, exhausted body would be able to oblige. In the event, he didn't have to worry. She was asleep when he finally found the courage to leave the en-suite. Disappointment registered but there was also, quietly, relief. Everything would be much better after they had both slept. Slipping in beside her, he moulded himself to her back, draped a careful arm over her, kissed the back of her neck and was asleep himself within a couple of minutes._

_The pain woke her at three in the morning. The slice over her rib-cage wasn't too bad but the arm was throbbing and stinging like mad and unlikely to improve without help. And, of course, she'd forgotten to bring her painkillers upstairs. Sighing internally, she glanced over at the man sleeping quietly and allowed herself a fond, if slightly ironic, smile. Hardly the best of circumstances for their first night together but at least they'd finally made it as far as sharing the same bed. She'd battled, hard, to stay awake but had been so tired that the sound of the shower had sent her off to sleep inside a minute and she couldn't even remember being aware of him finally joining her. Oh well. He was faced away from her at the moment so all she could see, dimly, was the smooth skin of his back and shoulder. Much though she would have liked to snuggle in against him it was probably a good time to sneak downstairs and retrieve her tablets without waking him so she carefully threw back the covers and padded down to do exactly that, stopping in the kitchen to swallow the dose and refill her glass to take back upstairs. Carefully sitting on the edge of the bed she swung her legs back up and under the cover and was about to lie down when his voice came softly from the dark as he rolled over to face her._

'_Is it hurting much?'_

'_Mmm. Sorry, I was trying to not wake you. You looked so exhausted last night.'_

'_You didn't wake me and so did you. Which, no doubt, was why we were both asleep before eight!' They smiled at each other before he reached out to touch her bandaged arm. 'Is this bleeding again? Does it need re-dressing?'_

'_No. Just sore but that will be fixed soon: these are very effective.' She waved the packet of painkillers at him, threw them on the side table and finally slid back in next to him, wriggling a little as she found a position where she could face him without lying on the injured bicep. Reaching her good hand over to lay it gently on his chest she added, 'How about you?'_

'_I'm fine. I've already had more sleep tonight than I normally get.' He picked up her hand in his own large, warm one and proceeded to kiss each fingertip, one at a time, while his dancing eyes never left her face. She lifted an eyebrow at him._

'_You're awake for a while now, then?' He nodded, a smile playing around his lips and still maintaining the eye contact; she reclaimed her hand but only to start trailing one of those fingertips down his throat and chest. 'Good. So am I. Perhaps we should put the time to good use.' The trailing finger was stopped before it went too much further._

'_We should. But we need to be careful of your injuries.'_

_A smile of her own answered his, full of promise._

'_Oh, I can think of a few ways around that.'_

_So could he._

'_Can you, just? Perhaps you should show me.'_

_So she did. _And, later, they had woken up in about the same position that they were in this morning. Her voice snapped him back to the present, as did the touch of her hand tracing the contours of his face through the still neatly trimmed blond beard.

"What are you thinking about?" She was smiling, dreamy, still half-asleep. He caught her hand and kissed her fingertips as he had on that first morning.

"What makes you think I was thinking about anything?"

She chuckled, deep and throaty.

"I've been watching you for the past couple of minutes: you were off with the pixies, my love. It looked like you were happy, though, wherever you were."

He brushed her hair out of her eyes, tenderly.

"You really want to know?" She nodded. "Just remembering the first night you ended up in my arms like this."

She smiled slowly, remembering herself. How strong and comforting his embrace was. And how impossibly happy she'd been to finally be in that embrace, even under the circumstances that had finally thrown them together.

"You revisit that as well, do you? So do I." She began to nuzzle his throat, ear, cheek; eventually, found his mouth…

Later, she woke from a light doze to find it was daylight and he was quietly leaving to go up on deck for his watch. He stopped and sat on the end of the bunk.

"Sorry, did I wake you?"

She shook her head.

"I wasn't really asleep. What time is it?"

"Not time for you to be up yet, you might as well go back to sleep for a while."

She snuggled back down under the covers, breathing in his scent. She was still tired – she'd had the 6pm to midnight watch last night and then there was that early wake-up - and so could do with another hour or two. She blew him a kiss.

"Okay. Love you."

It was only an hour later that she joined him on deck. Gavin, the skipper and owner of the Island Packet 485 that they'd hitched a lift with out of Puerto Vallarta in Mexico six weeks ago, passed her with a cheerful,

"Nearly home, Iona!" as he headed below deck to catch a few hours sleep before having to deal with their arrival. His wife, Cheryl, had been at the navigation station when Harry had gone up to take over the watch and was now rattling around in the galley, making them all breakfast – like the watch-keeping, the cooking was also shared evenly. Harry was now seated by the wheel, finishing a mug of coffee whilst the yacht essentially sailed herself. The south-easterly trades had been carrying them on a speedy beam reach for days and would see them into port so the watches hadn't been particularly gruelling. Unlike parts of the Atlantic crossing or the storm fronts they'd run into between Kiribati and Fiji.

_The first really rough weather had caught them west of the Azores. It had been all hands on deck and she was quietly terrified at the roar of the wind in the rigging and the spume tearing itself off the top of monstrous waves that were climbing up the backs of the equally monstrous swell. She'd clambered up on the streaming deck, which was heeled at an insane angle, clipped herself onto the lines and headed back to find Harry, who had been in charge of the watch. He still was and was standing by the wheel, oilskins running like a river in the rain and lit by flashes of lightning, issuing orders to ready the drogue and looking more alive than she'd ever seen him, laughing in the face of the gale. They'd all found out very quickly after the start of the voyage that he did indeed know how to sail and this particular watch proved it beyond any doubt… _ Filling her own mug with tea, Ruth went up on deck to join him, leaning over to whisper in his ear,

"Good morning, Harry."

He looked over, his amber eyes dancing under a mop of slightly riotous, sun-bleached blond curls, tanned and fit after the months of roaming, kissed her and replied in the same manner,

"Good morning, Ruth."

It was the one remaining link to their previous lives, this morning greeting, the single time every day they allowed themselves to use their previous names. A tiny act of defiance against their fate. She plumped down next to him and looked for'ard.

"Oh! I wasn't expecting that!"

They could actually just see the coast. Low, green-blue and hazy it stretched from south to north as far as the eye could see. In parts the skyline was beginning to be punctured by the sharp, angular shapes of long extinct volcanic cores thrusting into the pale blue sky.

"That's home, Fruit. First glimpse after how long?"

"A year, or thereabouts." _According to the legend, anyway_.

They sat in silence for a while, contemplating their future as it inched its way closer with every passing minute. Harry said, quietly,

"Gav and Cheryl say you can smell it when you get a bit closer. A mix of dry, sharp, dust and the fragrance of the trees. I suppose we'll find out soon."

The leach of the mainsail fluttered; without thinking now, Ruth reached out and adjusted the sheet before tearing her eyes from the shore to smile at him and respond,

"Indeed we will, Mr Stafford. Are you ready?"

"More than ready, Mrs Stafford. I'm actually looking forward to it."

He draped his arm around her shoulders and leaned his head against hers as they continued their earlier contemplation in silence. And eventually caught the first eucalyptus scent of their future on the breeze.


	13. Chapter 13

**13.** **Five weeks later – early November 2011. Hong Kong.**

This was a different world compared to those he had been in for the past eight months. Towering skyscrapers behung with madly clashing neon signs loomed over him, stretching up into the darkening evening sky, while an endless of stream of traffic churned up and down the road and the crush of pedestrians on the footpaths showed no sign of abating. It was still warm down here in the bottom of the massive concrete canyon packed with people and he was sweating slightly as he pushed his way down the insanity that was the harbour end of Nathan Road through Tsim Sha Tsui towards his meeting at the Peninsula Hotel. He had been here for two days, holed up in a small guesthouse high in one of the five towers that comprised the infamous Chungking Mansions, in a tiny room that, although functional, did a good impersonation of a cabin on a small boat. He'd spent the time doing all the tourist things, including Victoria Peak and climbing up to the enormous metal Buddha on Lantau Island while trying to shake off the grime that he felt was clinging, ever more thickly, to him after the past few months.

_There had been a final arms delivery for Hamet Fasli after the one in August when he'd run into Beth then, for want of anything else to do, he had taken up Etienne Schnetler's offer to join him on a couple of small, freelance jobs in West Africa, risky operations running more arms into first Cote d'Ivoire followed by Sierra Leone and then running security on exporting unnamed, small-scale cargos back out again. He suspected either drugs or diamonds but didn't ask, just took the money, shook Etienne by the hand in Cape Town International Airport and caught his flight back to Europe. He had been back, hiding out in Rome, for less than a week when Hamet had been in touch, saying something had come up that would fit his skills perfectly and, if he was interested, he would organise a meeting for Lucas with his contact, an old acquaintance by the name of Aslan Ulyanov. Still adrift, Lucas agreed and within a couple of days had been on another aeroplane, this time destined for Istanbul, where Hamet's daughter had met him and escorted him to the meeting with Ulyanov._

_The hotel was sumptuous; Ulyanov's suite was even more so and the man himself expansive as he greeted them. He was almost a caricature of an Eastern potentate: although a Chechen like Hamet, he looked as though he could have stepped from a modern copy of the Thousand and One Nights. Very tall, very rotund, bald and bearded with gleaming teeth and a pearl and diamond drop hanging from his right ear, he was expensively dressed in Zegna and overly scented with Versace but his hands, when they shook, were hard and his eyes harder. Also like a potentate, Ulyanov was surrounded by flunkies, most of whom he dismissed once they had settled down to business. That had taken some time as they had sat through the obligatory hospitality and small-talk, but when the conversation finally happened what they were offering made his heart sink._

_Ulyanov had been approached by some Saudi contacts who had contacts of their own, further east, that were looking for some very particular skills. Those skills revolved around detailed knowledge of western intelligence methods and the ability to pass those on to selected members of the client group for a specific mission. The knowledge was required so that they could circumvent likely reactions to their plans. The job would be intermittent over the next year or so and highly confidential but the payment was extraordinary for the right person – nowhere near the Chinese blood-money that was festering in his account in the Cayman Islands – but still seven figures, in US dollars. And they thought he was the right person. There was no need for him to make up his mind straight away but they would like to know by the end of the month. Ulyanov would be leaving Istanbul in the morning but he could send his response through Fasli if he preferred. Lucas said he would think about it and get back to them; they shook hands and he and Larissa left the building, plunging back into the mad melee of the streets. _

_They travelled silently back to their own hotel, each absorbed in their thoughts. Once there, Lucas headed for an area on the rooftop terrace bar that was away from the majority of the crowds and leaned on the railing, staring out across the Bosphorus at the lights of the city beyond. Giving him a few more moments, Larissa eventually leaned on the railing next to him and asked gently,_

"_Jonah, what is the matter?"_

_He didn't answer immediately, just continued to stare over the water , through and beyond the view on the far side, until he finally turned to look at her and she saw the bitterness and self-loathing in the blue eyes._

"_So this is what I have come to. Running arms was bad enough but at least I could pretend I was helping a worthy cause; now I'm betraying my country for a third time, just like I did twenty years ago and eight months ago. I really am nothing. Or nothing but a parasite."_

"_This isn't selling out your country, Jonah. It's about marketing your skills."_

_He looked at her, so young, so pretty, so practical and so very hard, as hard as Ulyanov or her father, and shook his head._

"_Yes it is. Maybe not directly but it's about selling out everything my country has taught me to people who are the enemy."_

_She didn't blink as she considered him, his face etched with self-disgust. She could understand the concept but didn't recognise the reality: the Fasli family owed allegiance to no-one and nothing but family and those few who, like this Englishman, were considered a _de-facto_ part of it. Geographical, ethnic or religious boundaries meant nothing – it was all just business as far as she was concerned._

"_You don't have to take the job."_

_He knew that Hamet would be taking a finder's fee if he did accept the job but also knew that the fee wouldn't be enough for him to care about, one way or the other: Fasli was doing this as a favour, as much as anything else, and wouldn't hold it against him if he declined. Sighing internally he replied,_

"_No, I don't. But I will. Because I'm a liar, a cheat and a murderer and not worthy of anything better. Tell Ulyanov once he's back home. Good night."_

_He turned and walked away, to his room. Her green eyes, troubled, followed him until he disappeared from sight. _

His potential employers had paid for his airfare and accommodation but he hadn't taken up the latter, preferring no-one else know where he was staying, while he had changed the former to get there a day earlier. Ulyanov had told him that the first contact would be by mobile phone and provided him with the handset and he was true to his word. A text had arrived two hours ago, requesting a meeting at Gaddi's, the venerable French Restaurant in the Peninsula Hotel. And now here he was, standing on the footpath of Salisbury Road dressed in a new, locally made, bespoke ultrafine woollen suit with that magnificent old edifice towering over him, about to walk in and meet the latest purchasers of what was left of his soul.

True to habit after arriving at the restaurant _via _its private lift, he scanned the room as he paused in the doorway, waiting to be shown to the table. The place was understated and elegant in an old-fashioned way: rich blue carpet patterned with large gold medallions gave a slightly regal setting to the tall cream walls, gold brocade curtains and mirror-backed candelabra sconces that formed a backdrop to the intimate round tables set with white linen cloths over old-gold brocade, silver candlesticks and fine crystal, richly upholstered seats inviting comfortable dining. The clientele was a mix of well-off locals and international tourists and he realised as he looked that he had no idea of who or what to expect, apart from the fact that there would be two of them. Before he could consider any more the _Maitre-d'hotel_ returned, he gave the name that had been specified and was escorted over to a table where a couple were seated. They rose as he arrived, greetings were exchanged and they got down to business.

The woman had introduced herself as Agustina, the man, Hamzah. She was in her early fifties, tiny, willowy and elegant, dressed in the latest high-end fashion and spoke English with a slight American accent that was a relict of her time as a student and post-graduate student in the US. He was younger, tall, solid and also well dressed and well spoken and they could, Lucas thought, have been any pair of prosperous business people anywhere in this part of the world. Then they started talking and it soon became clear that they were anything but.

They were running a training facility in a remote area and were looking for international lecturers on a variety of subjects. His name had been put forward by their recruiter and they thought he would fit the bill for what they were after but wanted to discuss some details with him. It soon became clear that it was exactly what he had thought it was but slightly more focussed: they specifically wanted to know the ins and outs of counter-terrorism protocols and procedures and details of the sorts of technology currently in use. They had just organised another specialist on counter-terrorism communications technology but were particularly interested in his expertise in other areas where technology was in use and also more traditional operating procedures. The students would be hand-picked and pass through the facility in very small groups, as they were also being very carefully selected, some for very particular roles which may require special tuition. Pay would be up front before each training period, flights and other transport to and from the site from any location of his choice would be paid by them, as would accommodation. It was not envisaged that his services would be required beyond the next twelve to eighteen months and the tuition proper wouldn't start until the new year, after the wet season at the facility was over, but they expected he would want to visit the site beforehand to assess the set up and could advise them if he thought they were lacking.

His instincts were telling him to run a mile, this was seriously bad stuff, but his old training was telling him to stay, that he was onto something big here and it might be better if he was around to witness it and, maybe, do something about it. His mind was going ninety to the dozen while he was answering their questions, as far as he chose to, on his background and experience, as to who and what these people exactly were and what their ultimate aim might be but, buried so deeply he could barely recognise it, was something else. That this might be something he could do in at least partial exculpation of his sins.

By the time the meal was over the deal was struck. He would join them, do what he was paid for but also try to find out exactly what the long-term plan was and wing it from there. Contact details were exchanged, hands were shaken and the pair disappeared into the depths of the hotel while Lucas made short work of melting into the crowds that were still thick even though it was past ten o'clock, fully dark and coolly drizzling. He walked rapidly down towards the Tsim Sha Tsui promenade, his mind still racing, planning how he would approach this new mission. It would be like the old days, before he had destroyed everything. But it wouldn't be like the old days, because there was no Grid behind him and, more importantly, no Harry. Because Harry had been kicked out and then murdered, in large part because of him, Lucas. _Except I'm not Lucas. I'm John. John the drug dealer, John the murderer, John the oxygen thief who didn't deserve to still be alive._

It was like a knife twisting in his chest, that reality. Harry was dead and he was nothing. The surge of excitement was draining away rapidly, leaving him feeling hollow and cold. Making for part of the railings that were in the dark and relatively unpopulated he leaned on them, as he had done not so long before on the rooftop of the hotel in Istanbul, and stared out across the eternally busy Victoria Harbour to the far shore where crowds of glass towers, glittering in the night, reached their crystalline fingers heavenwards until they disappeared into the low-hanging overcast. The drizzle was turning to rain now, the drops hammering into him, soaking his beard and hair to drip down the neck of his jacket and shirt as he briefly lifted his face up to the sky. Who did he think he was kidding? He was a dead man walking, representing no-one, with no backing and no-one who would know or care what he did. But the die was cast now so he would stick with it, even if it killed him. It would be as good a way as any to put an end to his miserable existence, especially if he could take a few of these bastards with him.

Cold, wet and filled with hopelessness, he finally turned his back on the harbour and plunged back into the thinning crowds, trying to drown the shadows fluttering around his consciousness in the brilliant neon of the streets. It didn't work.


	14. Chapter 14

**14. Two weeks later – late November 2011. ASIO headquarters, Canberra. **

"Wisnu!" she called, as she spotted the Head of her Indonesia department walking across the outer office. He looked over and came to lean in her doorway, muscular and lean.

"Yes, Ilian?"

"Are you making any sense of what, if anything, is going on between Capricorn Downs and Indo?" The younger man pulled a face and came to sit down opposite her.

"Yes, no, not really. The business is definitely a front for people we know are financiers for JAT and other extremist Islamist groups. However, as a genuine business it is actually going far better than it ever has, running cattle and selling them both locally and, increasingly, as live exports back home and is also being used for legitimate training of young Malaysian and Indonesian agricultural students. However…" His voice, still bearing faint traces of the Indonesia he had left with his Indo-Chinese parents when he was a young teenager, tailed off as he gathered his thoughts.

"However?" the woman prompted. He was a bloody good team leader but he did like to draw things out.

"There have been some unexplained movements of money in and out of various accounts, including those for Capricorn Downs here and others in Indonesia, Vanuatu, the Bahamas and Switzerland. In line with Rashid's rumoured background we suspect money laundering but can't prove it so that's still on watch. And there are still – odd – people coming and going. All legitimate, through Brisbane or Cairns, but they tend to pick up hire cars in Cairns and then disappear for a week to a fortnight and don't show up anywhere else in that period, which isn't normal for tourists. If we weren't watching the area we probably wouldn't even have picked them up." He hesitated again before coming out with the final observance. "A couple of them are suspected of being active commanders in Jemaah Ansharut Tauhid and Abu Sayyaf but again there's no proof. We're waiting for information from our compatriots in the appropriate intelligence communities."

She sighed and leaned back in her chair, staring both at and through him before commenting quietly,

"It's not looking good, is it?"

He shook his head.

"No. But we still can't pin anything down. It's all suspicion and circumstantial evidence at the moment."

She fixed her unnerving, blue-green gaze on him, her face as hard and unyielding as though it was carved from marble.

"Okay. Keep on it. I've got a bad feeling about this but we'll get the bastards sussed sooner or later so we can boot them out before they get a chance to do whatever it is they're planning. Keep me posted."

Wisnu stood to go.

"Will do."

She smiled suddenly, looking much softer.

"Thanks."

Swinging around in her chair, she stared sightlessly out over the vista of Lake Burley Griffin, shimmering blue against the low-lying city and khaki hills beyond while she wondered what they were missing…


End file.
